There lies a place that shall be
known as Leafy.

Known to some as districts,
Others as wards.

But,
on this sunrise of the
first month of summer,

It is,
Was,
And will always be Leafy.

During school I was ferried in and
out on a daily basis:

Entering the Southern Edge,
Occasionally going home via the
artery roads North.

Through two phases of work I saw
its eastern boundary;

The high canopied ridges that gave views
to the towers that produced their own clouds.

It's hard to say where the western
bit begins:

Although in two cases it is after a descent
from hill crest to dell.

Now, in a new phase,
I am taken back into Leafy.

Its walls of glaze,
stone, perennials and
manicured hedges.

Its emerald canopy plus the matching,
 living ceiling over
the parks and golf courses;

Where a squirrel can not only cross a dual
carriageway;

But reach the crest of School Hill without touching
the ground.

Yet despite these journeys,
I do not think that this is the
only Leafy.

For on Week's End I rise through what
could be another:

Ascending then descending through an
avenue of Planes.

Whose pillars and canopies frame the sky in
winter or summer;

With views to the district centre I have visited
more than any other,

And the verse on the church noticeboard that
provides food for thought.

There is another route to the First Leafy.
Via a climbing road beyond the place of
Hunt's Cross.

A long-held goal was to walk up this route
into the tree-swathed hills,

And buy a cake and a smoothie in the village
on-top.

Too far some say.
You wouldn't get back in time say others.

But, one late September day,

When autumn had not truly got
underway,

A group of us walked up the Hill
called Camp,

Enjoyed the warm sun and
sat on the warm grass,

Took in the view of the cobalt mountains beyond

two estuaries,

Whilst I remembered that I was finally sat
on the hill that I had long wanted to climb:

Leafy.

. . .

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