When the pen takes control.

The path ahead was straight and true

on which I and my true love trod

I said my heart is just for you

she called me a romantic sod

but I could see she was impressed

no-one had told her that before

the trouble was she wasn’t dressed

for lying on the forest floor

so I held her close by a tree

and slid both my arms around her

she was excited I could see

nervous I started to flounder

before I’d only ever thought of sex

and didn’t know what I should do next

Amidst the sun-bleached stones is placed,

a bench where some may contemplate,

amidst the songs of woodland birds

to gaze upon the deep-carved words

some are sad and some light-hearted,

some are recent, some long departed

familiar names bring forth their faces

while dim memories remain as traces

of perhaps some gathering or event

or with the family, fun evenings spent

now those below who may be gone

but in these memories live on.

Hidden by the flower stalks

I watch the people as they walk

folks would think it rather weird

if they knew I was sitting here

but there are plenty more like me

if people had the eyes to see

meanwhile we will carry on

keeping watch over everyone.

Our ancient ancestors tried to show us how they think

simply by using the tools they had as their pen and ink.

Beneath this stone in sacred ground

is buried a man of great renown

but were the words not on the stone

his deeds would be to us unknown

nor details of his valiant life

and how spent with loving wife

all seven sons and daughters three

they were a well renowned family

their names engraved at different stages

as their lives ended across the ages