Page 140 - Walking Gun A3 Brimpsfield Plus 4 2025F2

The season fades, yet lingers still, In memory’s frame, on vale and hill; Each photograph, a spark, a flame, That calls us back to days we claim.
The crack of shot, the drift of smoke, The pheasant’s rise, the cheer, the joke; The scent of earth, the fire’s embrace, The laughter shared in time and place.
For sport will pass, as seasons do,
But friendship binds and carries through; These pages hold what time suspends, The sights, the sounds, the dearest friends.
So let this book forever show, The joy we found, the ties we know; A season’s gift, in image cast,
A fellowship too strong to past.