Trees At Kew Gardens Poem by Michael Cayley

The trees are centurions,
upright exemplars of master races.

One or two, it's true, must be propped, but, roped round
with DANGER, even they stand aloof

in open-air sickbeds from the expert who checks
their latest symptoms and from visitors' pity.

The old school, you might say. Holiday children,
not here to learn, pant sedition

in the trunks' shade, cowboys and injuns
who proudly snipe in another, virgin land.