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The waters of the flood

The waters of the flood
are swirling o’er the lanes
and covering with mud
the little flowers whose names
remind me that Spring
will follow Winter’s rain.

The Temple Balsall road
is two or three feet deep
and Fernhill Lane is quite
impassable to sheep,
for when my horse I rode
the depth near’ made him fright’.

But soon will ebb the floods
and all will dry in time,
with greenery and buds
and finches singing rhyme
the wounds of Winter’s blast
to heal into the past.

There’s not too long to wait,
for brighter sunny days
have been the trend of late
along the country ways,
from Shrewley’s village inn
to Allesley’s noisy din.

The woodland covers now
are Winter-barren still
and yet it seems somehow
that they could almost fill
the world with greenery
of springtime’s scenery.

The mud upon Frog Lane,
although still slippery
with all the passing rain
will shortly dryer be,
for now the wet has gone
and Summer won’t be long.

The scarp of Berkswell Hill
is shining in the Sun
to show that Winter’s will
is almost wholly done
upon its meadows steep
that lay so long asleep.

The railway cuttings deep
will soon be bursting green
with blackberries on steep
and wild grown grassy slopes
where lovers oft’ are seen
to exercise their hopes.

So blow away the floods
with mad March winds and gales
that soon may come the day
my Summer hope bewails,
when playful swallows dive
and bees buzz in the hive.