Returning

I am returning to the hedge rows,
To the old road by the lake.
Where white swans wings, whisper in the wind,
As every new dawn breaks.
The tranquil water ripples –
As ducks and geese awake;
On the reeded island,
Sounds of a lone corncrake.

This time of year, the trees are bare,
Frost stalks the morning grass,
But the old church bell, still sounds the same –
At the call for morning Mass.
The wooden bench with names entombed,
Has been worn by life’s storms;
But it still brings back the memories,
Of when I held you in my arms.