Sounds of the air corrupt the trees,
Winding roads match sharpness in the wind,
And the climb sinks mountains into misty water.
The coves exsist in imagination,
Between profusely green valleys,
Where grass blades wave and wither in British weather.
The fowls frollock through mist,
Followed feverishly by father.
Watching the clouds swallow them slowly,
We are calmed shortly
Ive only seen that scene in movies.

Surfers bond with whispy snow bubbles,
Clean against the murky depths,
The waft of mussles contaminate the air,
Salt dries on moustaches as drizzle crashes on old ladies plastic headscarves.

Their giggle keeps seagulls floating mid air,
On scents of pub grub and fish and chips
That were swimming early that morning.

The tower stands tall at the mouth of a fall,
Rockpools gurgle the salt wash away.
Tea rooms line street paths with fresh cream
On pure berry covered scones.

Cliff edges covered in folage,
beat the clouds in a fight for colour.
Ponies make cold lumpy mountain homely.

Windy villages sell expensive beverages,
The good old English coastlines crying
Untouched Joyful views.
The rains came once, taking hard work away,
Bringing new storms of human interest,
On pure berry smothered scones.

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