by Dennis W. Turner
The lane winds on, now bent, now straight; Who set its bearing no-one knows. It much prefers to deviate Where hills intrude or water flows. A twisted route that someone chose Long since, I now negotiate. I trace the hedge where hawthorn grows; The lane winds on, now bent, now straight. The corners, crooks and curves create New vistas glimpsed between hedgerows. Now we can only speculate; Who set its bearing, no-one knows. Three miles in one, and so it goes, Past wall and wood and farmer’s gate. Its twisting, tortured nature shows It much prefers to deviate. The strange meanders indicate The way in which the track arose; The features of the land dictate Where hills intrude or water flows. The lane winds on . . .
– Dennis W. Turner.