The one-time communal benches
Are now overgrown
There are signs of a fire
Scorched earth, black ashes
It was, back then, a place for friends
Conversations, discussions
Likely over a glass or two of wine
With slowly-smoked cigarettes
Time, as they say, moves on
Lanes, and pathways which once
Took us to the places we needed
To go to, are now here no more
