The Magic of Quaint England

The winds are wildly lashing at my face;

The sea-spray fills the air – each wave a crash

Against the sky beneath a lightning flash.

As grim the beach, the rain it suits my place.

It courts the weather openly, not chase

The foul away. No chastity, but brash

Envelop near – as close to skin as rash.

The water slick, it carves a lonely space.

Return to calm and safe abode with oven

Full warming, cradling perfect Autumn fare:

My mother’s stew and dumplings – a feast for the eye –

Or the gravied brilliance of a shepherd’s pie,

Bewitched with mash and meat as are witches of a coven.

The magic of quaint England is here for all to share.

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The Magic of Quaint England

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