It was middle earth
A town beneath the hills
Once famous for its curing water and enigma persona
Sitting on the north flank to view
The valley spread like a Victorian tablecloth
The wind from the north smelling of hops
Ready to be picked for the local brew
The town awakes amongst the clouds of rain
Damp and dismal making the painter see shades of grey
Above the music shop in St. Celica Hall
The piano turner pucks at an old baby grand
Once long ago the composer so pomp and circumspect
Composed grand music in his garden shed called London
While old ladies gathered in the Blue Bird tea room
For morning coffee and local gossip
The public school children in uniforms strict
Raced from college to St. Ann’s Well
There to meet a suitor
A future lord or lady of this aristocratic land
Memories of wartime excellence
Of a college electronic viewed by radar
Lady Windermere fans her face
At the theatre where Shaw and Shakespeare regularly played
But it was the music floating high above the hills
That makes this town, its hills, its people my early life
That makes this town, its hills, its people my early life
