English clouds, English breeze,

Sights of the Britons, bantering at ease.

 

A punter here, a punter there,

Hopefully enough for all persons to share.

 

Yonder lies the River Cam in all her glory,

Gallantly telling her quite fabled story.

 

At times she is roaring, and at times she is weeping,

But hardly does she ever lie sleeping.

 

Here I linger, idly sitting by,

Hardly acknowledging any passerby,

 

As unfolds the tale I am hoping to share,

Of a land gifting me all its care.

 

From the Romans to the Danes,

Despite all the conquerors inflicting great pains,

 

This land keeps knowing nothing at all,

But to stay standing, proud and tall.

 

Yet even I, now simply sitting,

Do hardly see myself quitting,

 

Of gaping at the great treasure,

That my eyes silently measure.

 

For as the chapel bells ring, and merry Britons sing,

Nothing disappoints now, not one single thing.

 

Hence here I sit, just one small spec,

Atop the great River Cam’s mighty neck.

 

So easily could she push me away,

Yet quite kindly she keeps me at bay.

 

Enough to make me happily say,

That I am here in Cam, on this fine day.