If my son
Could be fishing here
He’d think his day had come
With thoughts of the low pass weir
And you my friendly reed
How is it for you to zoom
On this balmy, sunshine indeed
August afternoon
What is that throttled whistling bird
Not too too far away
Yes it was the shrill that I heard
But hey, you have your own style of play
Of all the women who I have known
One would like this place the best
With a poem her love would come to own
Unlike the dream scales of the rest
Perhaps we would lie
Upon the circular benches
Effortless, no need to try
Steadied by our lover’s senses
