Amidst rigid rows of tall, brick houses,
a verdant plain prevailed, wreathed
in black iron bars.
As summer’s grip began to stiffen, The Park breathed life
anew into our quietly baking streets.
Proud as church spires,
green alder rows adorned its border,
dyed ever-flitting shades of amber, blonde and honey as
the sun streeled through the languid sky above
with each passing day.
As though the whispering sea of wind-kissed leaves
was not blissful plenty, their waves told gently
of a vital beauty beyond.
Glimpses of bejewelled buildings: great panes of
Glasgow glass, stained gold, gleamed
through the cracks in the foliage
as the sun’s unwavering warmth was
illustrated upon them.
One could find their mind frolic through
the lives of others, behind each wall of glass.
Yet now they stand obscured, each masked by an
Who or what did the
sun so hide with its oblique glare?
Yet little worry could abound,
knowing still whatever scene the
was bathed in those same flaxen hues that carved
our urban oasis.