Forbury Gardens Poem by Anthony White

I sit here on this short-cut grass
In surround by twigs and trees.
The urban city, lies behind
This thin veil, a poor disguise.
The shining windows look down,
As the corporate judge presides over a world,
Leaving of its mold.

But here in this small Eden,
The little flowers grow.
The children kick their ball around,
As their hearts and faces glow.
A dozen men in corporate suits,
Play a similar game.
In their daily hour of freedom
They are children, once again.

The cricketers have brought their wickets
To a park which is far too small.
But nevertheless, they bowl on
And run and fetch and throw.
Sixes come easy, as did the summer,
As do flocks of sheep to pasture.
The patrolling lion is set on plinth
Declaring no man to be his master.

But as the clock-tower chimes the half-past-one,
The dozen suits depart.
Returning to their glass-walled cells.
They go easy, as comes the winter,
But by a wide stretch more reluctant.
The flowers lose their colour.
Yet still, the proud lion prowls over
All before, and all hereafter

And the families have had their fill
Of sunshine for to-day.
So they depart, in double quick,
With the children dragged away.
The cricketers grow bored so soon
With every swing a boundary
And so depart, themselves to find
A place of no such limits.

And now it's me and the ice-cream man
And two adolescents on the hill.
And the clock-tower rings a quarter-to,
And all the world seems still.
As this pace of life does not permit,
A man to live it faster,
The lion stands proud, nonetheless,
As no man shall be his master.