Pub Lunch Poem by Aisle Walton

It was all a bit of a cliché really,
the grassy bank rolling down,
each thick, vibrant swathe spreading out
specifically from me, or so it seemed,
until the river,
or something lost between a river
and a stream, flowing still,
reflecting like a mirror
each flower (a different kind)
on the opposite bank,
and a summer sky made cool within the ripples.
As I said, it was a cliché,
and, as such, was unreal,
leaving out, as it did,
the huge and grotesque bouncy castle
erected on the lawn in front of it.