Blown lawns of eternity wait patiently for the bedding plants,
Dug out pitches of foliage sit gaping by the edge of the path,
Candle stick men with matchstick legs gingerly tread the soft,
Loosely flung gravel sweep embedded pegs not too deep within,
Bouquet of stems with paper folding games on the open page,
Tulip and rose with heather and prose instruction where to glue,
Nothing in the table by the apple where the cage used to be,
Jostling pigeon crowd by the sound of rattling from the next yard,
Discarded bags of rubble solidified lime with twisted prongs jut,
Motoring Sunday hat reflected in the shed window and cobwebs,
Distant glass tap from the kitchen the washer finishing the rounds,
But still no sound of telephone bells and the broken heart beats flat.
Dug out pitches of foliage sit gaping by the edge of the path,
Candle stick men with matchstick legs gingerly tread the soft,
Loosely flung gravel sweep embedded pegs not too deep within,
Bouquet of stems with paper folding games on the open page,
Tulip and rose with heather and prose instruction where to glue,
Nothing in the table by the apple where the cage used to be,
Jostling pigeon crowd by the sound of rattling from the next yard,
Discarded bags of rubble solidified lime with twisted prongs jut,
Motoring Sunday hat reflected in the shed window and cobwebs,
Distant glass tap from the kitchen the washer finishing the rounds,
But still no sound of telephone bells and the broken heart beats flat.
