This place, an isle of stone, Quilted canvas of green to come, No blade, or leaf, or song from thrush, No scent, other than drops on rocks

So played song, Music, resonance of drum, Stir lakes and waters, Ponds and still, to seep this dusted eden, This island’s fertile seam

Majestic Oaks at dawns, gleamed wet, dripping onto swathed fern, As if aside crumbled Welsh streams, All manner life now, songs of birds and other calls of wild, Tempered to whisper at dusk, sounding far into green

Between a dawn and the falling sun, Moon moths and muntjac disturb peace by chasing each, such is their cry, Lazy blackbirds ride backs of badgers, And caterpillars arc in celebration, dancing with ants in sun dappled dry, This is no tale where nothing gets eaten, Their time will come, when later than late, ‘on someone’s plate be I’

But this day, a celebration of all that’s created, Where all manner of alive look to each other’s eye, Feasting on nothing but love and sweet hay, And the plants forth an extra flower, This most beautiful day of days, Such is my dream