I gobbled a round of caerphilly, then Theophily
called to me, under the linden tree.
Conservatism? Let me count the ways:
Morning suits, grey ties, greys
in every accoutrement, grey imagery
shoaling and fluttering down on me
lost in the grey-green park, under a tree
perhaps, taking the cool morning air
as I lie naked on the grass, bum bare
to the gaze of the policeman, a rare infinity
of arguments circulating deep within me
as the dictates of Theosophy suddenly seem unfair –
am I changing my stance, under the linden tree?
The work is easy, though the days are tough.
Pray awhile, then that’s enough.
Sit with me under the forgiving linden tree
and just be.

‘The linden tree’ began as a draft using the end-words of ‘Anti-Romantic’ by Marie Ponsot