After the knitted shades of larch
The open fields tell of parch
Although they spread their arms to hide
The dryness and the dust. I died
To glimpse the Cedar: have it down,
Sit on its trunk, forsake its crown
And see the young one in full bloom
That springs beside it, given room.
What craftsmanship! The plans! The thought
Behind each trellis deftly caught!
Each woven stump, each sumptuous pot
Each new, each old, each loving knot
Of curling petal, purple dark
The daisy and the call of lark,
The perfumes of Arabian night
That fill my lungs and quench my sight.
The House itself, serene, looks down
The fields towards the spire and town,
The guardian of Grace, of walk,
Of conversation’s more than talk.
High stands the grove: it’s thanks to you
Whose vision makes it all come true
Whose gardens where His feet have trod
Still daily say: thanks be to God.
For H.R.H. The Prince of Wales, with gratitude
21 August 2006