Rest awhile and catch your breath, it's been a steepish climb
And let the ghosts of yesterday come back to you in time.
Faintly as a whisper there's the sound of flint on stone
And you know that in your solitude you're never quite alone.

For on the ridge behind you, the legions marching still
Are on their way to worship at the temple on the hill.
Then if you look towards the sea, you'll see the longboats manned
By W'Lencing's men, the Saxons who settled on this land.

Can you hear the sound of digging, turn your head, the straw is well
Trampled in the muddy surface for the dewpond in the dell.
Water that for generations served both animal and man
And though allowed to disappear, has been restored again.

Wagons up the hillside, men with pick and spade
Plant trees upon the summit and the Lancing Ring is made.
Locals called it Lancing Clump for a century or more,
And stories of it's haunted past belong to Sussex lore.

The Only people on the Downs in nineteen-forty-four
Are serving in the army, for England is at war.
A searchlight from the gun site picks out a German plane.
Is George who used to live here, protecting us again ?

The air is full of torment, as trees, torn from the ground
By winds of high velocity, fall groaning to the ground.
The Lancing Ring lies beaten in the early morning light
But the many Friends of Lancing Ring come by to make it right.

Conn Gardner

                                  The poetry of earth is never dead:
                                  When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
                                  And hide in cooling rees, a voice will run
                                  From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead --
                                  That is the Grasshopper's. He takes the lead
                                  In summer luxury; he has never done
                                  With his delights, for when tired out with fun
                                  He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
                                  The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
                                  On a lone winter evening, when the frost
                                  Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
                                  The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
                                  And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
                                  The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

-Keats

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If you would like to add your Lancing verse to this page please send the details to:

Ray Hamblett
57 North Farm Road
Lancing
BN15 9BT
Phone 01903 766449
E-mail : ray.hamblett1@ntlworld.com