Look upon the Royal Gardens
And see how the trees are aged
And starving, I have seen
Their bark shiver
And crack, I have seen
Their roots go rotten
And black, and in the frozen air
Flakes of wooden shrapnel
Drunkenly dance to the rhythm
Of the thrush’s melody, but
Even the birdsong has wilted
In the dull revelry
Of the tree’s passing, for

The holly bushes are few
And their berries no longer
Blossom from the flower, the
Thrush’s dinner is due but
The elm’s nectar has gone thick
And sour, and  

Where should the royal swans rest
If not upon
The shrunken coasts of ponds
That seem more like puddles
And by rivers that have gone still
And narrow
Making the water appear dead
And shallow, where then

Should they go
If only Hell is available ?