A weekly walk in the Country Park
With its walkers of waggly tailed dogs
Freely running through the pasture,
Or In the woods sniffing felled logs,
nurturing insect worlds of their own.
Walking along meandering paths
Each one not quite overgrown
Past the coppiced willow hedges
Of the bird feeding centre,
Arching over the bench
Inviting us to enter,
See the birds, eating ,
Robin, Blackie, Pigeon and Tit,
Seeming unaware us as we
Just for a while sit.
This old whiting quarry,
Worked over hundred of years,
Now sensitively managed so that
An almost unmanaged park appears.
Alongside the Humber River,
Whose banks curve away to the sea
Or inland towards the white dancers,
Arms slowly turn almost hypnotically
Harnessing the winds that stream
To steadily and constantly blow
Actoss the water to accompany
The tide's natural ebb and flow.
Here's the Country Park Inn
Welcoming we walkers back
With the promise of coffee and,
If wanted, a little hot snack.
With the coffee finished
Time to be on our way
As more waggly tailed dogs
Arrive for their time of play.
We drive past the old windmill,
The always muddy walk of planks,
Under the great Humber Bridge
That gracefully links the banks.
Every week when we walk
As the seasons slowly range
The colours are different and
Our park has subtly changed.
A place once of hard labour
But now a place of leisure
That gives both man and his dog
Hours of simple, natural, pleasure.
