West of the Coombe we lay at peace in a loom in May. A bough abloom from Autumn’s tomb soon will blow away. North of the Abbey we roamed, through blossom of crabtree we combed. The sky that bellowed, its eye that yellowed brought what’s only loaned. South of the woon she ailed. Her mouth from the moonlight paled, no words were uttered yet something was stuttered then eyes and lashes were veiled. East of the Coombe she sleeps close to the bracken that weeps, when the Crab tree cowers She’s dressed in flowers Until the wind of Autumn reaps.