Clusters of English “unofficial” roses
have climbed the fence to face the sun.
Each in its crimson finery supposes
that it, alone, is the only one.

Honeysuckle tangles with its vagrance
bramble and lavender, rose and gorse,
fills the still air with its golden fragrance
there where the steps run a wayward course.

Shamrock has camped with a fragile neatness
just where the foxgloves have unfurled;
the privet has flowered and its lemon sweetness
hedges the edges of this living world.

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