The byway, like an arrow shoots the fallow field

Hugging the hedgerow I head for the Hawthorn tree 

Climbing the style steps, I stop and stare beyond 

At fields of wheat, wafting and waving before me.

 

From my vantage point I view a pending dispute

As the seasons are seemingly shifting, without fanfare or frill,

The summer sun and offered warmth once welcomed

Gives way to an autumnal coldness and chill

 

Hurry home young man, hurry home,

I’ll take my leave, I dare not tarry,

Hurry home young man, hurry home,

Before autumn leaves harass and harry.