A chain of iron fenced parks
runs through my history
The formal green space
grants me refuge
from the rigours
outside the gates.

Here sits the cannon
with worn double headed eagle
the dimpled deep brown metal
familiar to the hands
of the children of the town.

Here, the fountain cast in Paris
water singing
of first passion
of consolation and weeping,
and of joy

The grass bent beneath the frost
The stone churches leaning in
the weight of religion
bounding the place of dreams

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