So this is my Britain:
A land of rugged rocks on shores with crashing waves;
A land of green rolling hills,
Meadows of gaily coloured flowers alive with insects;
The chirp of crickets, the buzz of bees, the scurry of beetles and the bob of butterflies;
The darting of lizards into crisped undergrowth, the rustle of mice, voles and hedgehogs.
In the dappled glades of the forest remnants the fallow deer chew alertly. Under hedges rabbits venture from their burrows, adders, grass-snakes and slowworms bask in the sun, soaking up the heat, or languish in safety under the corrugated tin.
In the fields the red poppies bob among the feather-top grasses, the purple thistle stands erect and the yellow buttercup and dandelion gleam like tiny glowing suns.
In the streams the stickle-backs dart, frogs are still with eyes protruding, prone within the water and newts…
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