When the pen takes control.

Whenever into the country we go

the direction to take I always know

the answer is always plain to see

I always look for an old bent tree

but how does that help you may well ask

well the South west wind blows up a bent tree’s trunk, (sorry but nothing rhymed)

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.