Nature Beckoned

The lane was narrow, the meadow wide,
Dotted with whisps of violet hue.
The town itself lay round the bend,
But here, a stream of crystalline blue.

The clock ahead called out to hurry,
The proper thing to do,
But butterflies beckoned and breeze pulled,
Softly whispering I miss you.

Her seat was empty at that place,
Of dismal drudgery.
Off were her shoes and cares as well,
Enthralled by nature’s luxury.