To the south of my humdrum valley home
Burrough Hill stands above the copious loam
Amongst an easy farrago of rolling undulations
It's an empyrean plateau afar from conurbations
The weathered Iron Age ramparts atop to crown
Like an immovable sentinel for the nearby town
With exquisite views across to its namesake village
Betwixt the two, there's a vale and a farmers' tillage
Adorning the verdant slopes are the covert and spinney
Footpaths and bridleways, where horses might whinny
And above in the sky the ravens will rise on the breeze
Before they swoop and they glide with consummate ease
From the trig or the toposcope on the fortified scarp
With keen eyes that are directed, focused and sharp
Seen in a summers', vaporous, heatwave shimmer
The distant glass towers of Leicester might glimmer...
And on a cold, but clear day and afar from the masses
When the wind is crying, there's a scattering of ashes
Caught by a north easterly it's a last salute to the city
To celebrate and remember, there's joy without pity...
It's a home for cattle and sheep and the occasional pig
And is often a place for a university's archaeological dig
Above the fields of crops and amongst other undulations
Burrough Hill timelessly stands afar from conurbations
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