Well, yes, I do, actually
For that is where I am.
And it is fine, all very fine.
So fine you cannot fault it.
The medlars come in May
With the bees,
And the vines are heavier each day with grapes
For the rich red wine of autumn.
The bougainvillea, as every year,
Cloaks in purple the stones of the garden wall
Where the lizards hide and scurry.
The flowers of the hibiscus blow their red trumpets for a day
Then fall to be replaced by more tomorrow.
And all of this is fine,
All very fine.
But it is far away
From the fitful sun of a June day
On a hill in Somerset,
Where the oak and the old crab apple tree
Grow side by side,
And together look over the channel
To the blue hills of Wales,
Waiting for the gentle rain
Which Portia said was mercy.