The lovers used to sit
Beside the gnarled ol' tree
Swapping bits of charming wit
However simple that may be.
Pleasantries of the first degree
Always in high demand
Beside the venerable tree
Where the atmosphere's never bland.
Whispering through each other's lips
Thoughts of going home bereft
With incandescent fingertips
Where the acquiescence has never left.
A wind of discomfiture meanders through now
And the birds have ceased their merry song
As the loquacious tree its sorrow avows
Where have all the lovers gone?