The old bench
The bench where once we met, forgotten now,Although still elegant in its neglect,Bearing well the slights of time, somehowLends autumn's golden mantle full respect.Your laughter echoes in a jackdaw's call;Chattering figment of your merriment,Bubbling through talk of matters great and small,Which score the lines of our many hours spent,On the bedpost of my memories.Here I prosecute against time's defence,Beneath these ever silent, watchful trees,Keeping yet our secrets without offence;For in truth there was nought but talk and dreams,And fate cares not for would be lovers' schemes.