TOFT - The Magic Village
Barbara Wilson
TOFT, the magic village, lies on a gentle rise,
Its feet are cool in a running brook, its head looks to the skies
Over open fields of fertile land, tended for many years
By generations who understood and cherished what was there
To all those people passing through it's just another place
With a forty-mile speed limit and an ordinary face,
And to others who live round about it's just a funny name
Seen on a sign-post or a map, without a claim to fame.
But if you are very lucky, a strange compelling hand
Reaches out to draw you, until you understand
That you are meant to come and live in this especial place,
And all your fears just melt away as you feel its warm embrace
For every face is friendly and every word is kind
And there's a strange contentment which soothes the troubled mind,
And gently eases sadness and lifts the solitude
Of those bereaved or in despair, and brings them fortitude.
All villages are their people, a wondrous motley mix
Of ages, wins and failures, talents and hidden gifts
Of artistry, and doggedness, of joy and love and tears,
That often breed fierce discords which echo through the years.
But when that Dane so long ago built his homestead here
He struck a spring of harmony that still runs bright and clear
Into the hearts and minds of those who live beneath the spell
of TOFT, the magic homestead, where warmth and welcome dwell.