Elizabeth Gardens


Sat on a bench,
in Elizabeth Gardens,
that irregularly manicured
Jubilee remnant,

I hear the thrumm-engine,
the Uckfield to London,
low tremors from the station,
with both of us ‘resting’,

but then she shunts loudly,
on her commuted haul;
and with my gripped pain
I stand, stiff, but resolved

that my own departure
is kept to a timetable,
one promised my wife
at my bench-long halt:

‘You go ahead, I need to rest’
and I watched her walk on,
with the dog, and its pull:

Me, re-scheduled,
to then slowly follow.


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