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| To the Conservation Group at Seven Fields - Barbara Meader. |
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| Thank you all in the Conservation team |
| clearing pathways and cleaning the stream, |
| keeping the fields around our estate |
| building bridges, for I would hate |
| to jump across the stream at my age - |
| would make news on Local papers front page! |
| Walking through the fields in Spring |
| makes you want to whistle and sing |
| seeing all the blossom coming out |
| that is what conservation is all about |
| In the summer looking at the wild flowers |
| It's a nice way to spend an hour |
| when autumn comes it's all changing colours |
| leaves are falling on one another |
| winter sees the fields covered in snow |
| and wonder where all the wild animals go |
| with all the houses being built around |
| this is the place to hear a different sound |
| of peace and tranquillity |
| so keep up the hard work -Please. |
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| Barbara and her husband Ray, now, both Senior Citizens have given most of their adult live's to service in the community at Penhill, help set up the inaugural meeting of the group and have supported us in spirit ever since. |
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| THE FIGHT FOR SEVEN FIELDS |
| by |
| Jean Dodson |
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| A PLAYING FIELD, A KIDDIES SWING, |
| A BROOK THAT WHISPERS GENTLY |
| UP SEVEN FIELDS BY PINEHURST WAY |
| IT AIN'T A PLACE FOR GENTRY. |
| IT'S MORE A PLACE FOR WORKING FOLK |
| TO GO AND TAKE THEIR EASE, |
| FORGET THE PROBLEMS, |
| WATCH THE SPARROWS |
| HOPPING THROUGH THE TREES. |
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| BUT WILL THEY LET US KEEP IT? |
| AH, THERE'S THE RUB MY DEAR, |
| JUST LISTEN AND YOU'LL HEAR THEM |
| DRAWING EVER NEAR, |
| THE BULLDOZERS, THE DIGGERS |
| THE MONEY GRUBBING CREW |
| THEIR ONLY LOVE IS CASH |
| AND NOT A THOUGHT FOR ME OR YOU |
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| THE 'HARD HAT' BOYS ARE COMING |
| ARMED WITH CLIPBOARD AND WITH CAR |
| TO TAKE AWAY OUR HERITAGE, |
| WHO DO THEY THINK THEY ARE!? |
| BUT WILL WE LET THEM TAKE IT? |
| NO! NOT WITHOUT A FIGHT! |
| IT'S OURS WE MEAN TO KEEP IT |
| IT'S OUR DEMOCRATIC RIGHT! |
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| A morning in Seven Fields |
| Leonardine Walker. |
| 1994 Poetry Competition |
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| Come walk with me at Seven Fields, |
| in the early morning light. |
| If we are quiet and softly tread |
| small wonders meet our sight. |
| Maybe a fox on his way to the copse |
| to hole up for the day, |
| or a badger or two snufflin' round in the dew |
| to find what morsels they may. |
| There's a rustling sound |
| in the leaves on the ground. |
| and a frog makes a leap for the brook, |
| startled we stop, watching the scene |
| eyes tracing the line that he took. |
| With a plop and a croak |
| the still waters he broke, |
| leaving ripples and rings where he'd been. |
| With a whir and a shimmer |
| a flash and a glimmer |
| small things cloud up from our feet, |
| disturbed by our passing, our talking and laughing, |
| they swoop and they lift, they dance and they drift |
| before settling once more in the heat. |
| Slowly we stroll towards Underwoods Knoll |
| to rest in the shade at Old Copse |
| what more can we ask, but to drowsily bask |
| watching an inquisitive vole. |
| This is real today, we want it this way |
| and also we want it tomorrow. |
| You steal it, we'll feel it |
| and you'll leave us only with sorrow. |
| Don't spoil our pleasure, our renewal and leisure |
| by changing our Seven Fields space |
| No buildings, no motors, no noise and promoters |
| just leave us our lovely green place |
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| THE HAVEN |
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| Fields with old hedgerows, fences and streams |
| Fields with the mark of the voluntary teams |
| fields with a myriad of butterfly colours |
| that float up before you as they break from their cover |
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| Fields of such calm, where birds do their singing |
| Fields of such peace, bluebells almost ringing |
| Fields of such splendour, rare flowers all around |
| Fields of such life, small creatures abound |
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| Fields that are old, but ever renewing |
| Fields that are new, to those at first seeing |
| Fields that are here, and have been forever |
| Fields that are needed. Development? Never! |
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| See blackbirds, and finches feeding on haws |
| See trees sport the nest of cheeky Jackdaws |
| See fields where the sedges and grasses and rye |
| Give a backcloth to show off the stately oxeye |
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| Fields full of promise, there's so much that's good |
| Fields open and free that stretch up to the wood |
| Fields back from history, where deeds good, or bad |
| Have made travellers along there feel happy - or sad |
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| Fields ever changing, according to season |
| Fields filled with vigour, following natures reason |
| Fields following time, aeons each make their mark |
| From fenland to farmland to water to park |
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| Fields to relax in, to ponder , to think |
| A place of withdrawal, pull back from the brink |
| Away from your labours, away from life's ills |
| Seven Fields is a Haven twix two busy hills. |
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| Ray Smith - Stratton |
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| SEVEN FIELDS FOREVER! |
| E.N. Froud |
| Winner -Poetry Competition 1994 |
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| I remember it well that year of '53. |
| The council had to house us, so desperate were we |
| We looked at Pinehurst firstly and really weren't too sure |
| But when we saw the outlook, Penhill drew us more. |
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| The sea of mud subsided, the roads and buildings grew |
| Until it all presented and orderly review |
| We spent our childhood wandering across the fields so green |
| So happy with the freedom that countryside can mean. |
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| In 1963 I moved away from home |
| A little sad and lonely for all that I had known |
| I managed to get back as often as I could |
| To take in walks familiar and sights that looked so good. |
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| My son was born in '73 and made our family four |
| To grannie's I now took them - three miles door to door |
| We took out picnics often, a game of cricket watched |
| What fun we had exploring the stream, the meadows and copse. |
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| Those days flew by so quickly I scarcely saw them go |
| And Swindon was a-changing from that I used to know |
| I feared that most of all Seven Fields would go the way of most |
| and buildings, buildings, buildings would be its only host. |
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| I see a brighter future now and envir'nment issues reign |
| and people come to value basic living needs again. |
| My children's children might wander so happy and so free the very path that I once trod way back in '53. |
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| I LIKE SEVEN FIELDS |
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| Mark Stacey - Greenmeadow |
| Aged 7 years |
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| BIG TREES |
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| LITTLE TREES |
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| FAT AND THIN |
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| THESE ARE BEAUTIFUL THINGS I SEE |
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| BIG LEAVES |
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| SMALL LEAVES |
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| GREEN, RED, BROWN, |
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| ARE THE COLOURS TO BE FOUND |
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| I'VE SEEN RABBITS HOP AROUND |
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| WILD FLOWERS HERE AND THERE |
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| SHOOTING FAST NOW SPRING IS IN THE AIR |
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| I LIKE SEVEN FIELDS |
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| YES I DO, |
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| IT IS SO QUIET AND PEACEFUL THERE |
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| Ode to Picketts;- |
| With apologies to Wordsworth |
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| I wandered on the tarmac path, |
| That's pushed thru ancient hedge and meadow hills |
| When all at once I saw with wrath, |
| A host, of bloody daffodils |
| Beside the stream, beneath the trees |
| Stiff and regimented in the breeze |
| Continuous as the lamps that shine |
| And light the blessed cycle way |
| They stretched in never ending line |
| Where once grew bedstraw and rosebay |
| Ten thousand saw I at a glance |
| And was inspired to sprightly dance |
| My friends upon them also danced, and they |
| Outdid me with sparking kicks of glee |
| A poet could not but be gay |
| In such a jolly company |
| We raged - and raged at by whose thought |
| This field had been turned into this insult |
| For oft when on our walk we pour |
| Over thought, or in pensive mood |
| We remember what was there before |
| Which was a bliss of wildlife and herb |
| and then our hearts with anger fills and dances on the daffodils |
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