COBBLED STREETS

 

From the soy fields of England clay

Where horses and cattle slowly walk;

The smell of sweet clover upon the dried hay,

And the smoke filled pubs where people talk.

For its tomorrow we cannot ever frame

And the times spend playing on the grass;

Yet today as yesterday remains the same,

And tomorrow if it comes will surely pass.

The cobbled streets with buildings left to right,

And the whispers of people rushing by;

Soon another day will fade into night,

And before tomorrow I may die.

 

Epaphroditus© September 6, 2004