Here are the acres bare of fuss
Where Norfolk lads will thrive,
A land where one in three of us
Is over sixty-five.
Is that our blue remembered past
Down childhood’s fickle ways?
Slow thought can never travel fast
Through memory’s misted haze.
Normal for Norfolk—that’s a boast
Maintained with stubborn pride,
A blurred dissolving slipshod coast,
The gnaw of hungry tide.
That is the country where delight
Is built of this and that,
Of muddling lanes and blinkered sight
And irremediably flat.
