It's a golden morning
And light through leaves
Patches the road
With sun.
I'm going to the dump
With builders' bags
Full of dead leaves and sticks
Pruned from the bushes in our garden.
Not by me, I hasten to add.
My wife does the pruning
And the gathering of leaves.
I do the dump.
It is a golden morning
And the rays of sunlight filtering through the leaves
Of the lime trees at Lovesgrove
Patch the road with sun.
Ends
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