Camellia blooms lay

Like rosettes

Thrown away in pique

On the road-side verge

Adrift now and prey

To neglect. That long death

When colours go to grey

And lazy feet

Mince their soft flesh

Into the deep gravy of earth

But if you correct the view

That line of sight

Can be assailed by crisp

Tight buds and petals in their prime

And you might forget

That sense of loss

Through the park

Through the park

A boulevard of trees

In lines, feathered strides

Mark time in stubborn beauty

They are the sentinels of our views

As we travel through the park

On week-days in the rain

At week-ends in the sun

Always stoically in tune

So that dreamers can travel through

Oblivious in that beauty

Confronted by a gleaming, gilded statue

Of Diana in the pond, a watery roundabout

Around which in May white blossom

Will scatter scented parcels

Gifts to the grass and casual views

Rewards for travelling ever so slightly

Off the beaten path