Comments about Clifton King
The garden is raucous with yellow and orange.
I find a bench in the shade.
Gravel pathways crunch beneath the crush of tourists.
A muted mix of Italian, French, that proper King’s English,
and the American version, fills fragrance laden air.
Bees and butterflies are overwhelmed with choices.
A woman nearby talks on her cell phone, in French.
Her words, music I don’t understand.