September sun down Hobs Hole Lane, <br />The combine reaps the golden grain, <br />That waves in fields <br />Now harvest yields <br />From autumn's countryside, <br />I see the old sweet chestnut tree, <br />And all the hedgerows wild and free, <br />So still the air <br />The day so fair <br />I wander far and wide. <br /> <br />Skies of blue down Hobs Hole Lane, <br />The beauty there shall never wane, <br />The berries fine <br />And so divine <br />The view across the land, <br />Through the gateway I do peer, <br />And see the sight of morning clear, <br />The trees still green <br />And so serene <br />All painted by God's hand. <br /> <br />As I walk down Hobs Hole Lane, <br />Where long forgotten days remain, <br />It winds and falls <br />A song thrush calls <br />Then gracefully does fly, <br />I make my way past Nuttall's Farm, <br />With a sense of peace and calm, <br />The horses graze <br />I stop and gaze <br />And then I walk on by. <br /> <br />At the end of Hobs Hole Lane, <br />It's time to go back once again, <br />The coppice fine <br />As light does shine <br />Upon the narrow way, <br />And I begin the journey home, <br />And through the woodland trees I roam, <br />As sun does fade <br />I'm cast in shade <br />The ending of the day.<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/down-hobs-hole-lane/