Coombe Hill

We were crossing the green field Picking up the wild flowers We drank the cheap wine Spoke most beautiful words Once there on a Coombe Hill We were walking for hours And our lives seemed so fine In the best of the worlds Then we passed the old tombstones With names undistinguished We climbed up the Coombe Hill Looked down from birds fly Over there was a home With a garden relinquished -“Is it occupied still?” But you didn’t reply..