A poem to celebrate the beauty of the counties of Herefordshire and Worcestershire, as seen from the highest point of the Malvern Hills, Worcestershire Beacon.
From Malvern Top
From Malvern top we watched
The crows fly, wing-breath beating
Over Evesham Vale, following
The mercury flash along
The silvered River Severn
Below us a quilted
Display of field and farm
Village and town, patchwork
Stitched by centuries hands
A weathered pattern
From Malvern top we watched
The walkers rise, summit bound
Bent into a roaring westerly gale
Craving the leeward haven
And silence re-found
Bench rested, hearts pounding
Quickened by gradient and such
Views that cause breath be taken
And single tears to form
Or was that the wind?
From Malvern top we watched
The passing of the sun,
Casting happy shadows from
The rounded dome of Bredon Hill
The rolling distant Cotswolds swell
The jagged tooth of British Camp
And Herefordshire Beacon
Fading with the sun dip over
Colwall, and Ledbury's hushed streets
before dying beyond the Clees and Shropshire far
From Malvern top we watched
As seasons changed, a colour riot
Where winter-white thickened layers upon
Worcestershire Beacon and North Hill
And later blossoms pink and yellow sparkled
From Hanley Swan, Welland, Upton-upon-Severn,
Decorous, and blooming marvellous all
And upon the pleasing slopes
The bluebells wind-chattered, gently swaying
In proud display
From Malvern top we watched
The summer rose, a heady scent
When night barely fell
Before sunrise eager came
A gentle rise in cobalt skies
Warming the walkers and brow moppers,
'Lovely day, steeper than it looks'
And the dogs chasing grey rabbit heads,
Burrow bobbers and elusive squirrel tails
Scurrying bark-wards up the trees along the Wyche
From Malvern top we watched
Spires and towers and steeples
As bells pealed from distant
Hereford and Worcester, Cathedrals both,
Canon fodder of chimes and clangs
Competing to be heard first among flock
And Heaven's listeners
As Sunday's best kicked newly fallen leaf
Awaiting autumn's harvest of
Pershore plum, Hereford apple, Worcester pear
From Malvern top we watched
The leaf fire, in russet, gold and purple
A final defiance, a last hurrah and colour charge.
The leaves now blown and reluctantly fallen
As autumn storms arrived
And we began our descent from Malvern top
Beacon light failing upon frosted paths
And all of Worcestershire and Herefordshire
Began to sleep, a Bromyard shush, a Bromsgrove calm
A Ledbury lull, a Kidderminster quiet
From Malvern top we watched
The night close in and a shy moon
Hide behind silhouetted clouds
And the wind strengthened its breath
That tasted of cider and perry
And the clear Malvern spring water
Which we would taste again, once
Malvern top, winter-white cloaked
Looked down upon the two counties
With a smile of renewed green.
Tony Frobisher
