This is a soft land
cushioned in the hollows
and curves of sandstone,
loving its partnership with water.
It feeds the trees that repel
the sun's harsh interrogation;
its surface is moisturised
by the westerly winds.
They tried to find the bitter edge
of lucre by drilling
underground passages
but the land would not have it.
It stands wounded and scarred
but the badgers still tread the night
and birds chorus in the morning.
It sleeps through the wars
and keeps conflict domestic.
Happy new year from the Staffordshire tongue!!!
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