A neat, quadratic canvas of emerald turf
a littler off center, at autumn’s eve lies
no garden of silver bells
gentle English sensibility;
rather ancient oak trees, Spanish moss
sagging
all engineered into perfect, Machiavellian rows.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary.
written in Forsyth Park, 11 Sep, ~5:37pm.
The-Bleu-Bivouac 