Twisted   paths   lined   the   woods
Where   I   once   used   to   walk
There   I'd   watch   people   gather
Of   an   eve   just   to   talk

And   sense   just   the   rhythm
Of   the   road   moving   on
Listening   to   the   silences
From   Twilight   to   Dawn

In   the   cradle   of   the   night
I'd   hear   it   resound
The   song   of   the   crickets
Rising   high   from   the   ground

Past   the   woods   one   could   see
From   some   distances   away
The   homes   of   the   people
Who   chose   there   to   stay.

At   the   first   sight   of   dusk
The   lights   from   the   homes
Would   glow   in   the   woods
Like   the   lanterns   of   gnomes

In   the   midst   of   the   woods
They'd   cleared   a   little   space
Laid   the   modest   trappings
For   a   small   eating   place

On   a   simple   wooden   door
There   hung   a   small   gourd
With   a   welcoming   lamp
On   a   hand   painted   board

Four   walls   made   of   stone
In   the   shade   of   a   tree
And   windows   so   tall
From   without   you   could   see

Young   couples   who   came
To   that   place   not   to   eat
Unshackling   their   cares
From   the   day   to   retreat

The   fare,   it   was   modest
And   nothing   was   dear
You   spent   longish   hours
Mulling   over   a   beer.

I   remember   those   times
When   my   pockets   were   bare
And   all   I   could   do
Was   to   try   not   to   stare

At   faces   so   solemn
Yet   somewhat   alight
With   knowing   anticipation
Of   the   treat   of   the   night

I   remember   on   occasion
When   I   was   still   small
Nose   and   face   pressed
To   the   window   in   the   wall

On   feet   lightly   poised
From   the   owner   to   flee
Tasting   in   my   mind
The   food   I   could   see.

The   tastes   they   were   real
I   recall   till   today
Of   the   modest   eating   house
When   he   shooe'd   me   away

The   woods   are   still   there
And   so   is   the   road
Though   battered   by   age
There   hangs   still   the   board

Dimm'd   along   with   old   time
The   owner   and   the   lamp
Still   herald   a   welcome
From   the   cold   and   the   damp

With   the   gift   of   my   sire
I   stand   somewhat   tall
But   I   still   press   my   nose
To   the   window   in   the   wall.

I   see   the   white   vest
Now   quite   faded   with   age
Of   the   owner   in   the   corner
Looking   solemn   and   sage

My   pockets   aren't   bare
But   I   stand   still   a   while
Till   he   shoo'es   me   away
Though   now   with   a   smile

I   return   to   that   place
Travelling   from   afar
Again   and   Again
On   the   twenty   fifth   hour

I   know   it   will   happen
One   day   stripp'd   of   grace
Those   woods   will   be   gone
And   so   will   that   place

In   its   stead   there   will   be
A   place   stark   and   clear
No   songs   of   the   crickets
For   young   couples   to   hear.

Silence mourns alone  
That idyllic retreat
Lamenting man’s passion
Nature’s joys to defeat

I'd   know   then   to   part,
Like   a   man   from   his   lover,
Leaving   twenty   fifth   hours
For   others   to   discover.