Miss Fitzsimmons had an
orchard
Barely forty years ago,
Where blossoms hung upon the branches
Weighted down like winter's
snow.
Where once the grass grew
green and treasured
And the skylarks song from high
Would echo through the
fields and hedgerows
Now where traffic thunders
by.
Where the gate stood to the
farmhouse
Stands the supermarket store,
And Miss Fitzsimmons yard
and stables
Lost to sight forever more.
A petrol station mars the
landscape
Where the water pump once stood,
And now a hundred houses rise
From Fred McWhirter's Wood.
Of what was once fair England's Eden
No more is left to say
When summed up so completely
In the road name "Orchard Way".
Back to village
