What lily-lamps are these, bowing as we
Pass and making watery obeisance?
What hypnotic music leading us a dance
Amid the willow, oak and acer trees?
Who'll wear this geisha's metal wig, and who
made this swimmer, all right angles, curve so
Sumtuously? Carve this solid stone
So sensuously it was not made but grew?
By brook, weir, waterfall, pool, rivulet,
A winding woody way, a bridge, another path,
A cottage from a fairy tale, a poem from Plath,
This garden has such verve, high spirits, wit
These sculptures can't be precious, grim or smart;
The trees speak for themselves: so must your art.
I've made a few small changes and will now let it sit for a while. I'm away for a few days. The blog will resume some time next week by which time I shall be thinking of writing something which is NOT a sonnet!