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Roots

There’s a village by the river, it’s a calm and peaceful place,
It’s got a church, it’s got a pub, it’s got a Norman tower.
At least what’s left of it of course, though it still has charm and grace;
it slowly crumbles year on year, no more a sign of power.


The gardens sweep down to the bank, through trees and shrubs and bushes,
by tidy beds and walls and steps, idyllic and serene.
To where the water gurgles through, boggy places, tall bulrushes,
while nearby stronger currents flow, past lawns so smooth and green.


A place of beauty sweet and pure, a picture postcard view;
although it’s slipped behind the times, untouched for years and years.
It’s said that people never leave – content; not passing through,
for some have spent their whole lives there, no wish for new frontiers.


But not for me that quiet place, the world I had to see,
and so I sailed the seven seas, five continents I saw.
And yet the mem'ry of that place forever stayed with me,
the place where my life started, the place that I adore.


Sometimes I sit and look across; the village nestled there;
a hundred yards beyond the flow, yet the pull I feel is strong.
The silent water glides between, dwellings safe behind its care,
a magic place, a place to dream; it's where my roots belong.


One day I will return to stay; to the village of my birth,
and then I'll stay until I die, no more a wand'ring star.
For there is where my heart is, the finest place on earth,
It’s in my soul forever like, Brigadoon or Shangri-la.