Harewood estate lays beyond the stile,
Field upon green field mile after mile.
Blue Chicory swaying in the tall grass,
Inviting you to enjoy before you pass.

The Cuckoo calling from the distant wood!
Oh! to see the elusive Cuckoo; if only I could.
The morning dew; gayly the Muntjac sprints,
Leaving a magical misty trail of silvery tints.

Starlings dancing like black ghosts in the sky,
An old timber yard with logs stacked high,
Wooden corpses of trees under the blue sky,
Cut down, only to be left to rot and die.

On and on we go crossing ditch, field and stile,
Leaning upon an old gate to ponder; rest awhile.
The Sun going down, the faint glow of a far-off town.
The Majestic Monarch Stag with his velvet Crown.

By Jim Noond.