A red ball-finial sun surmounts
The dark catís cradle of the trees.
The fountain patters. Droplets come
Stinging the face in quirks of breeze.
Incisive footsteps tap the path.
A pause, a few more shots to take.
The house stares back with fish-eye panes
At walkers round and round the lake.
Along yew alleys, topiary blurs;
Daisies white out the turf below;
The roses grubbed, a gardener
Earths up first earlies with a hoe.
The keeper's gibbet has collapsed.
Roots choke his rides, and cattle roam
The deerís domain before old heads
At windows, changing home to Home.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jerome Betts would be
pleased to hear from you.