The hills and the valleys majestic they stand
The streets and the alleys echoing still
The patter of feet and songs of the sheep
The mills turn their hands as the streams rush on by.
The lock gates are raised, joy is released.
Creation speaks and artists paint
pictures with canvas and words.
The sun bows it’s head
The wind blows the trees
History is woven
and made in
Stroud town.
©Revdjo 16/6/22
