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
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