the garden at fulham palace

A man carved in wood stands high above the ground,

Observing the goings-on from his ornamental tree trunk.

He looks out across a stretch of sun-scorched grass,

Where families enjoy the last blast of a summery Sunday.

He can hear the happy squeals of youngsters playing;

The persistent squawk of a low-flying bird;

The gentle rustle of leaves from a strong river breeze;

And the loud whirr of an aeroplane just overhead.

A sudden gust stirs up dust from the gravelly pathway,

An escaped paper napkin takes flight,

The sun momentarily dips behind a candyfloss cloud,

And an empty Coke can rattles around raucously.

Then, just as quickly, the dust settles and the wind stops,

The whirring and squealing and squawking subsides.

The man carved in wood, standing high above the ground,

Enjoys a moment of peace within the palace garden.

He can see the calming fountain beyond the brick wall,

And smell the vibrant lavender that frames the courtyard.

Beneath him, two carved thrones provide a unique resting stop,

Behind which another carved man is sleeping like a log.

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