Covert In Concrete


Here once were woods with cubs at play
    When fields had stooks and ricks
But Time, in passing down this way,
    Has dropped no end of bricks
And now each parcel boasts its box
    With cars and gnomes in front
A country where they’d hunt the fox
    Would these days fox the Hunt.

Jerome Betts

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Jerome Betts would be pleased to hear them.