Heatherfield Lane

We are incased in stone
with Nature growing slow
At the boarder wall

Weeds reach for the sun
Cracking the grey pavement
Of our oily driveways

Birch branches tap
Upon window panes,
Roots grapple water mains
Drinking from old lead pipes

Tall grass tickles childrens legs
As they chase butterflies,
This suburban capsule
Our habitat, our place to hide

Far away from the tears
We grow ancient, like the trees,
To insure our survival
We simply turn a blind eye

Never stepping beyond 
The Wooden signs that 
Inscribe the town's name
The town, of Heatherfield Lane.