Bobs Lane

Women he liked, did shovel-bearded Bob,

Old Farmer Hayward of the Heath, but

Loved horses.

He himself was like a

And leather-coloured.

Also he loved a tree.

For the life in them he loved most living things,

But a tree chiefly.

All along the

He planted elms where now the stormcock

That travellers hear from the slow-climbing train.

Till then the track had never had a

For all its thicket and the

That should have earned it.

No one was to

To name a thing beloved man sometimes fails.

Many years since,

Bob Hayward died, and

None passes there because the mist and the

Out of the elms have turned the lane to

And gloom, the name alone survives,

Bob's Lane.