SHROPSHIRE MISTS
By
John G. Sutton
Far from bustling highways
Beyond the cities grime
There is a land that stands untouched
By the hurtful hand of time
Castle walls may crumble
At Ludlow and quiet Clun
But in the mists of Shropshire
England’s heart is young
There where the Severn shimmers
And softly falls the rain
In many a silent churchyard
The long dead wake again
Merry Jack and his Betty
From Knighton dance once more
As the bells of Hughley steeple
Ring round the hills of yore
The spirits of marching soldiers
Tramp through the silent vales
And in the taverns stop to drink
Then tell their oft told tales
In moonlit fields the teams still plough
Though the crops are memories
Whilst through the woods run lads long gone
Their bones like broken trees
There upon the Wrekin
Roman legions stamp their mark
At Wenlock Edge the camp fires burn
And light the clouded dark
Come summer’s morn to Shropshire
Where England stands these days
And in the mists remember this
Our ghosts will walk always.