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.
