9 July 2012
He stood at the edge of the garden and surveyed the sacred land. His worn out boots were deep in weeds, a worn out hoe in his hand. his kerchief red as an English rose, his eyes of Cambridge blue, hair the white of Dover cliffs when Albion was new.
And his sad blue eyes remembered the garden he once knew, where London pride had flourished, where honesty once grew. Now the Bindweed weaved and wandered around the old rose bed, where "freedom" clung to the trellis and "fellowship" lay dead.
He turned his gaze to the North and South, to the East and to the West and said a prayer for the pure at heart, the fallen and the blessed. Then stumbled down the silent lane where now no songbirds sang past the leaning lych gate where now no church bells rang.
And a petal fell from the pink Peace rose like the fall of a patriot's tear.
TOM MAY
The Garden • Opuss № I