The Summer Scribe of Teesdale
A cottage stood in Mickleton that year, Where summer sun washed over Teesdale’s green. Great oak trees rose, majestic, proud, and clear, With leafy crowns above the quiet scene.
Old walls of stone ran down the valley wide, Where yellow buttercups bloomed in the heat. The river murmured by the countryside, And clover grew like velvet at my feet.
From heavy boughs of oak, the blackbirds sang, Their golden notes enriched the summer air. Across the fields their sweet, clear voices rang, To banish every trace of worldly care.
Then gentle dusk arrived to cool the day, As purple shadows draped the fading crest. The twilight stole the golden light away, And brought the sleepy valley to its rest.
Soon silver moonlight bathed the quiet ground, While burning stars ignited midnight skies. A deep and sacred stillness wrapped around, And night-time kissed the earth with lullabies.
With ink and paper placed upon the desk, The quiet hours inspired my dreaming mind. Midst shaded groves and fields so picturesque, The deepest words of peace I used to find.
That summer warmth inside my rustic home Allowed my drifting soul to write and soar. No longer did my spirit need to roam, Content behind that heavy cottage door.
