When the oak worm soaks the sun And the little chuckleberries Suck the icicles that come In the deep dark depths of summer When the birds sing ‘La, la la!’ And the bear can’t get the honey For he can’t unscrew the jar. Then if you were nosy, spying On the things you should’nt see You might spot the bumble dancing With the happy humble bee And hear all the fairy music And the golden birds that cry As they step the waltz together In the grounds of Brambletye. Down the scary lanes that wander Where the badger-rat still roams And the purple crested fieldlark Seeks yet still his long lost combs Where the Ash-tree tells the oak-tree As he sheds his dull leaves first That the slimy Nickerwinkle Still inhabits Paddockhurst Though he slides the glades at evening As the purple sun sinks low His small brain will be frustrated For he seeks a Man Who Knows And the Man Who Knows is not born And may never, ever be Waves in time the golden cornfield Who knows what this life may be Where the singing gilded songbirds Swirl in the badger-rats wild dance Who knows what the truth of life is Who has a good or ill starred chance In the forest with the muffets And the silver singing shrees Where the skyblue Nickerwinckle Flutes his song along the breeze It is there that you may find me Just as English as can be With my picnic spread before me With a cake and flask of tea Sharing with the crested fieldlark And the badger-rat that roams Pain of nickerwinckles searching For their everlasting homes. Tony Gardner, Turners Hill