There is a town that winds around
from Tewkesbury to Newest Town.
Shell pink blossom strewn in Spring;
and new born lambs to mothers cling.
Dawdling swans drift under Haw Bridge.
Then looms majestic Malvern ridge.
And in the early morning chill,
thin swirls of smoke on Tirley Hill.
Travellers ponies gently graze,
verdant verges on summer days.
Pale roses climb round cottage doors,
Wisteria tumbling over walls.
Shot silk crimson peonies lean,
bordering lawns of luscious green.
Then Newent’s spire stands high and bold,
In sunset skies of red and gold.