The rolling hills of Oxfordshire

A Sunday in Oxfordshire
A celebration
The fifty fourth birthday
Of a special soul
A raven haired lovely
A witch Good and true
A quintessence quality
One of the few

Long Compton’s history
a magickal haunt
Where covens of witches
Did one time flaunt
Spirits and deities
Oxfordshire stone
And genuine thatch
And, the odd crone

A Path leading off the road
Led away to the right
To Whichford Pottery
Tucked away out of sight
The “keelings” brainchild
Frost proof and home made
Flower pots of red clay
In the stock yard were laid

A courtyard
A stockyard
The straw kitchen where
Tea and cakes proffered
And much they could share
The Octagon gallery
Showed off its pots
Amidst some nice
Plantings of specimen
Lots

A mindness availed itself
An aura as well
highly priced pots
That probably sell
But we thought them sadly
Too expensive today
and the “Hwicce”river
Where the name comes from
They

speak of a ford on a river
Somewhere
But no one is actually
Fully aware
We drove through the lanes
Passed the walls of dry stone
All of this knowledge ancestors
Had known

Onto Little Rollrights
The stone circle where
On the top of the hill
By the three faeries there
Looking down into Chipping
Through the fields of gold
Of barley and corn
Pretty much sold

On the fact that this was the place
Where we would
Now have Our picnic
it was good if we could
In the warmth Of the afternoon
Seemingly we
Could rest up a while
Before heading to tea

We sat there just dreaming
Of rituals that we
Had participatedin
And so to be
Here just relaxing
With the sights and the sounds
Was lovely and peaceful
Sharing the grounds

The light brought its clarity
And a slight breeze
With the stones and stick faeries
That truly seize
The moment and hopefully
It doth remain
In the positive box
Inside our brain.