Wine; in Park

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.