Covert In Concrete
Here once were woods with cubs at play
When fields had stooks and ricks
But Time, in passing down this way,
Has dropped no end of bricks
And now each parcel boasts its box
With cars and gnomes in front
A country where they’d hunt the fox
Would these days fox the Hunt.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Jerome Betts would be
pleased to hear them.