That was once our view.

It was my perfect view;

Out of the blue, a tree grew.

From then, there was no perfect view.

 

After that, our lives closed in,

And you, with your arrogance,

Your new-found taste for sin,

Plus your innate flair for spin,

Emphasised the symbolic side

And, harking back to sweet evenings

When we listened for the early owl,

Became impatient and cried foul.

 

I looked today; the tree had gone,

The sparkling vista shone as new,

But since I no more think of you,

There is no perfect view.