i

remember privet road down in winton

those days after the war

the second world war that is


though it feels like folk are at war

always somewhere

maybe we should look after things

and our people


anyway there is a privet plant in the corner of the garden

down by the water pumping station


they want it cut and i want it tidy

so we comprise as i love the smell

of the small white flower come annually


i shall rake the leaves and have made a sign ready

privet corner

it is not a hedge like my grandma had

just a privet plant

The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
With muffled music, murmured far and wide.
Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
The messages of love that mortals write
Filled with intoxication of delight,
Written in April and before the May time
Shredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime,
We dream that all white butterflies above,
Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,
And leave their lady mistress in despair,
To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,
Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies