The old hill fort at Beacon Hill
Is a peaceful place today-
A place to potter, a place to rest
And dream an hour away!
Here I can drop the cloak of care
Which links me with the town;
While the sounds of sheep are wafted up
And lark songs trickle down.

Mistrustful stoat and fearless wren
Both watch me as I sit
Upon the turf near filled in shaft
Of neolithic pit,
And, by my side, where ragworts bloom,
And clumps of knapweed grow,
The rabbit scrapes point out the way
To old flint mines below.

Upon the loosened soil I spy
An ancient axe of flint;
A covering of white has now
Obscured it’s darker tint;
But otherwise ’tis hardly changed
Since first chipped out, although
It left the hand of Stone Age man
So many years ago.

The stone tool holds some curios charm,
And I rest again
I grip it’s butt, I close my eyes
And give my fancy rein.
It’s magic edge cleaves through the years,
And I can look at will
Into the days of ancient folk
Who worked upon the hill.

I see a craftsman shape a flint
And fit it in a haft;
I help to haul the packs of flint
Drawn up a deep mine shaft;
I revel in the sun and wind;
My limbs are strong and brown;
With axe in hand I tramp along
With men of the old chalk down.

But green woodpecker’s jeering laugh
Drives all these thoughts away,
And waning sunlight tells me that
I should no longer stay;
And though my axe will smooth the work
Tomorrow’s morn must spill
My steps are slow-I’m loath to go
Away from Beacon Hill

Credit to Barclay Wills in the 1920’s


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