(I was brought up outside Eastbourne, and learned to drink, hunt and make love in the country that lies around the Downs. Belloc may have to take some of the responsibility, but the magic of the South Downs and those formative adolescent years have always remained deeply impressed within me.)
The Downs -
Great tracts of shades of greens and golds,
And browns,
As firm and sure as Bronwen's breasts,
Swelling up above the folds,
That lie beneath our feet:
There down below,
Roads spread across the cleave like veins,
Which threading flow,
Through waste and common, meandering, meeting,
At village greens, Church spires competing,
To reach to heaven in lowly greeting:
And farms, like crucifixes hanging,
Upon the end of ribboned lanes.Now look above:
Clumps of thorn, unruly thickets,
Nipples, breaking up the skyline:
Remember love,
First knew the lingering joy of kisses,
Secretly, among bushes,
With hearts abounding, passions rising,
Spirits meeting, limbs entwining,
Skylarks trilling out the high line,
Cattle lowing out the baseline....For 'twas here we lived,
And loved,
And lay with girls,
And drank,
And ran with hounds.
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