I sit on Alfred’s, the old head gardener’s seat
I wonder what he might have made
Of the mock tree
With the mock apple baubles
I think of your boots
With silver on the heels
I think that even if all that glitters
Is not gold, it is still evocative
One couldn’t quite call it the start of the day
Yet the artificial tree
Between the beech and the horse chestnut
Is what the children shout about
What did you make of the sculpture park
I’m sure I told you about my coming here
After my mother had died
After bombs were dropped on Yugoslavia
I hear the distant aeroplane
I am taken back, to you collecting me
From your airport; you wanting to show off
Your island, just as I wanted to show you mine
