Simon Cotterill

The greenwood moss and emerald robe
Worn by my good friend who
Is a lover of great stories
And of Avebury he is true
To himself and to his lady
The caring Ann Goldstraw
Who enjoys his many outdoor pursuits
And is confident and sure

A man of many subtleties
Knowledgable and true
Living now in Stafford
Who takes a hearty view
Of life and all the countryside
Of walking near and far
Loves the wild creations
In their drama he does star

The ancient sacred landscapes
Long barrows and the like
The colours and the textures
And the tones from every hike
He fills his lungs with crispness
And his heart so full of gold
And breathes in all those miracles
On which of course he is sold

Avebury is at the centre of three
Great watersheds and they
drain Way
In three directions into the sea
Each day
On the centre of the Michael Line
Sharing an ancient pedigree
Simon feels that in his heart
It’s where he needs to be

A man of thought and function
The walks there he can do
Up windmill hill Silbury hill
The Ridgeway ancient still
The natural spring and yew tree
At Alton Priors he
Soaks up all its prominence
And cosmology

And It gets into his gristle
At the magical Fyfield Downs
With its massive sarsens representing
In that energy he drowns
His ardour, and such a scholarly activity
For he
Can take himself to
Stone Henge
And of course to Avebury

Boscastle and some amazing walks
The great height to the sea
Soaking in the salty air
And marvelling a key
To greater thought of ancient beings
Living in the raw
Following in their footsteps
Is what he is living for

A watcher of the old ways
Erudite, a sage
Recently campanology
Presents another page
In Simon’s true activity
His energy and mind
Such remarkable perspicacity
And awareness hard to find

A vivid imagination
He thinks outside the box
Loves the ancient wisdoms
For him knowledge unlocks
His inventive creativity
And his sympathy and more
interpreting the magic
That so many just ignore

Onto Victor Hugo
Who wrote of Notre Dame
“The great lady of Paris”
Of Quasimodo’s calm
But ridden by his repulsive looks
And deafened by the bells
Loved one Esmeralda
With his own made up love
spells
That emanate from caring
And campanology
it was where he lost
His ability to hear
And sensationally
Found fascination from all of that
In the history of time
The bell ringer the dancer
The tragedies sublime

For me it is an honour
To know someone like you
Clad in greenwood moss and emerald
Making dreams come true

Happy birthday dear friend 2/4