Sometimes; there’s no finer thing
being amongst the maize,
a place; that is cared for,
nature’s loving ways,
the ivy’s cut; thus; trees can grow,
to be so very strong,
their silent bloom; a laugh at us
when we act so wrong,
hence; I like to sit; and gaze; to
them; the old green masters,
toasting, with some fruit of theirs,
away from business blasters,
for the wine; has come from them,
I sip, with heartfelt thanks,
with their roots; caressing bumps,
some seats; by river banks,
modern era’s garish,
makes this; a healing gift,
a fellow man; could let me down
so; open field’s; a lift,
therefore; in conclusion, to
escape such foolish bark, I
step in tow; with bottle bag; and
drink; some wine; in park.