the friendly writers group

The Garden

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The Gibberd Garden, green and wide.

Is Harlow township’s civic pride.

And though not open every day.

It has a car park and café.

It’s there you may your quietus make,

With fresh made tea and carrot cake.

 

Then to the garden, when you please.

To wander freely through the trees.

To where two giant flowers stand;

Each fashioned by a human hand

Then in an arbour you may see,

The strange, exotic Judas tree.

 

And there’s a seat beyond the stream.

Where you may sit a while and dream.

Or look upon the moated fort,

Where once opposing armies fought.

Deserted now; its soldiers fled,

A dabbling duck stands guard instead.

 

Then to the columns, tall and round.

With remnants scattered all around.

And did they witness Rome’s great fire,

While Nero played upon his lyre?

Or hear great Caesar cry in pain,

‘Cor blimey Brutus, not again.’

 

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A joyous day spent in the sun.

Our sojourn in the garden’s done.

We to our homes will now repair,

And with alacrity prepare,

A piece we hope that will beguile

The listener with its wit and style.

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