The bowling green, the clack of ball on ball
Across the grass as perfect as the dawn
We sit down on a bench,new painted too
Lumpy paint but good enough to do
Round the edge, the dahlias bloomed like suns
No irony was meant nor overcome.
Goldenrod, geranium were bold
The earth was hot and rich in summer’s hold
Past virgin rhodedendrons , children played
Swings and see-saws, all somewhat decayed
Painted with the same paint as the bench
I saw my father fall, I felt the wrench
Where shall we sit, my sweetheart, by the lawn?
I have lost your face. my heart lies torn