Running through a forest with shoes covered in mud,
Stopping to pick a round yellow bud,
Woods as old as time.
White spired churches rise over the town,
Thin hedgerows with branches of brown,
Stones made of grey lime.
Feeling the age of tall tower walls,
Dark staircases to damp underground halls,
Castles as grand as the sky.
Raucous voices from the village pub,
Walking on wet grass to the gooseberry shrub,
Fields calm as I lie.
Rain pouring down in sheets,
Water flows down the street,
Clouds cover the sunbeams.
Exploring hills dotted with sheep,
Shore meets blue of the faraway deep.
Wales as rich as it seems.