From Mount Field,
Across the Menai Straits,
The mountains stand in ancient grandeur,
Against a backdrop of clouds and skies of blue,
As seagulls whirl and sharply call,
And boats with sails unfurled,
Dance upon the waves.
Behind the castle,
Whose roots sink deep into blind history,
Lies Beaumaris town,
Where hot and sticky holidaymakers,
Walk down the main street,
Or along the wooden pier,
Past gleeful children,
Fishing crabs with bucket and string.
And on Mount Field,
The doe eyed cows,
Graze upon the green grass,
Or sit and chew the cud.
And perhaps in time to come,
There upon that grassy mound,
A greener patch of grass may yet appear.
