Kentish Heart

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This bucolic place,
This idyll,
This church-bells-and-
Whack-of-a-cricket-bat place,
And stone faces strewn with ivy and wisteria,
Here, the long perpetual summer,
The sweet rum and sponge cake of a summer fete,
The white-tipped Oast Houses and hop kilns,
Beyond, the rolling hills and scudding clouds,
And still, always, the green of it.
This place brings my soul to soar,
The roar Blake wrote of fills my ears,
These darling buds may comfort all
My aching years
And all the winding country roads to roam.
Always, I am coming home.

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