It is twilight high upon the Wolds in Lincolnshire.
A sudden heaviness in the air.
After a long walk pleasantly I start to tire.
I am alone, company here is rare.

Despite the grey shrouded hills.
I can see miles upon mile above the Misty vale, clear in sight.
My heart now thrills.
Far below me I see a cottage in lonely welcoming light.

Perhaps four miles away I see.
A car’s headlamps sweeping forward.
Like a ship on some rolling distant sea.
On its silent journey what it, I cannot see, drives toward.

Now in the valley it is completely dark, I have finished my roam.
But smoke rises, the door opens, tea is brewing, I am home.