It’s a lovely sunny day here at St Madoc Centre and many flocks of birds are passing over our land on migration. It’s that time of year when, everywhere you look you are reminded of autumn. Bright green mosses are asserting themselves in the dunes and weird, black Earth Tongues are pushing through sand by the volleyball court, like fingers of liquorice. Leaves in our woods are turning spectacular crimson, orange and amber tones. But, wind may bring us Ash dieback disease. If you pray, please pray that its arrival won’t become a UK disaster. We want our children to know what the lofty, lichen-clad Ash is, not what it was.
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The ash grove how graceful, how plainly 'tis speaking
The harp through its playing has language for me.
Whenever the light through its branches is breaking,
A host of kind faces is gazing on me.
The friends from my childhood again are before me
Each step wakes a memory as freely I roam.
With soft whispers laden the leaves rustle o’er me
The ash grove, the ash grove alone is my home.
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