The Green

It’s spring, show me the green, no not the flowers and trees, but the turf of the sacred bowling green: where the smell of wood and leather, the jack no heavier than heather, clicks its chattered, woody song, to sparrows’ scarpered throng let me taste and smell your sweet ground’s mighty swell, as it’s pitch and rise mirrors, beauty of the dell and with this Spring’s weighty call a million miles from nature’s fall, comes the season of our glee, friendship’s spine, and bowls so free