Above me I hear the pounding shells,
The mechanical sound of war.
And like so many, just cannon fodder,
In my mind hard to ignore.
They say that times a healer,
My thoughts still far away.
To see the cradle of my youth,
And the haven of yesterday.
Under the canopy of subtle green,
Down a little leafy lane.
A wooden stile sit’s, a gateway,
My hope that some thing’s, stay the same.
Though the pathway to it now is worn,
By those who have gone before.
In it’s post carved forgotten loves,
Now on show for ever more.
From the time of it’s construction,
It has watched the world go by.
Sweet hearts filled, with loves emotions
A teardrop wiped, a final kiss, is this goodbye.
And through out the year it stands there,
As each season comes then goes.
A robin red breast say’s good morning,
As it shake’s off the winter snow.
© Nicholas Windle 2008