What is it about this country of ours,
Its cultural innovation?
The source quiet resting in shady bowers,
That sense of England as arts nation.

Parallel world aside restive days,
Of daily life and leisure.
A something which behind all lays,
Its value rich beyond our measure.

An escape from workday’s humdrum hold,
And its bondage of our thought.
Relief from our daily time thus sold,
Where in a world of sameness caught.

Our shared experience and history,
Of hardship, graft and joy.
Past magic and of mystery,
Are recruits our artists keen employ.

And like a portal from this misty past,
Out from it this culture flows.
To build on what has been amassed,
And from its seeds the future grows.

Literature, music and media,
Provide the culturescape to our lives.
Add to our Englandpedia,
To ensure all long survives.

It's a vein of something quite unique,
Through which Englishness blood flows.
Specific to its couraged meek,
And which alongside ever grows.

Recognisable around the globe,
As being a product of this land.
Its art clothed in a regal robe,
Silk gloves upon its hand.

This Atlantic anchored Albion ark,
Age Barnacle and Limpet clad.
Will forever on new voyages embark,
Though no departure having had.

A country embossed with peaks and folds.
Of national and country parks.
Its moors, dales, downs, and fens and wolds.
Our imagination ever sparks.

I love this land for all my worth,
For what it has and will produce.
I've loved it since it to me gave birth,
And from its chord, I’m not yet loose.

So entangled am I in its weft and weave,
That I'm the culture and it's me.
And never will I be enticed to leave,
For this is where I need to be.