ANDREW BLAKEMORE - Down Hobs Hole Lane

September sun down Hobs Hole Lane,
The combine reaps the golden grain,
That waves in fields
Now harvest yields
From autumn's countryside,
I see the old sweet chestnut tree,
And all the hedgerows wild and free,
So still the air
The day so fair
I wander far and wide.

Skies of blue down Hobs Hole Lane,
The beauty there shall never wane,
The berries fine
And so divine
The view across the land,
Through the gateway I do peer,
And see the sight of morning clear,
The trees still green
And so serene
All painted by God's hand.

As I walk down Hobs Hole Lane,
Where long forgotten days remain,
It winds and falls
A song thrush calls
Then gracefully does fly,
I make my way past Nuttall's Farm,
With a sense of peace and calm,
The horses graze
I stop and gaze
And then I walk on by.

At the end of Hobs Hole Lane,
It's time to go back once again,
The coppice fine
As light does shine
Upon the narrow way,
And I begin the journey home,
And through the woodland trees I roam,
As sun does fade
I'm cast in shade
The ending of the day.

ANDREW BLAKEMORE

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