Where grasses drift and silence stays,
A barn owl haunts the twilight haze.
Deer slip through shadows, soft and shy,
Beneath the vast and open sky.
This land once tamed by golfers' pride,
Now blooms with nature’s quiet stride.
A rewilded jewel on Highworth's brow,
More precious than it's ever been — now.
Here children wander, foxes tread,
The skylarks sing above our head.
This is not wasteland, not just space —
It is a wild and sacred place.
But far from here, in council halls,
Come plans to raise grey concrete walls.
Jim Robbins nods, and Kevin Small
Support the plan to end it all.
Seven hundred homes they claim,
At nature’s cost — a lasting shame.
A legacy, they say, of growth —
But not of care. Not of oath.
What legacy is this we choose?
To pave the land we all will lose?
Or shall we guard this place instead,
For owls to hunt and deer to tread?
Let history speak of what we save,
Not only what we dug and paved.
Highworth's green heart beats out a plea:
Let this land live. Let it run free.