There is a garden bench, in a pretty sort of wilderness

Not one of Bridewater fame, inhabited by unpleasant folk

Its occupant has long since hastened away

Her richly embroidered brocade gown sweeping over the fallen leaves

Cloak of fine stuffs hiding secrets of the heart

Delicate circlet of gold adorn her long auburn hair

Bare feet embracing the cold, foliage-strewn soil

On the abandoned seat, a lonely tome, its age and subject unknown to man

Its brittle pages fluttering in the passionate autumnal gale

Its words scattering to the earth forgotten knowledge

A singular parchment is cast undetected on the footpath

Upon its surface, words of cherished devotion imparts an ardent missive

Calling to her, a noble and his beloved lovingly endure the fleeting centuries