She sits on the recreation ground

Under an oak whose yellow buds dot the pale blue sky.

The young grass twinkles in the wind and the sound

Of the wind in the knotted buds in a canopy.

So sitting under the knotted canopy

Of the wind she is lifted and carried away as in a balloon

Across the insensible void till she stoops to see

The sandy desert beneath her the dreary platoon.

She knows the waste all dry beneath her in one place

Stirring with earth-coloured life ever turning and stirring.

But never the motion has a human face

Nor sound save intermittent machinery whirring.

And so again on the recreation ground

She alights a stranger wondering unused to the scene;

Suffering at sight of the children playing around

Hurt at the chalk-coloured tulips and the evening-green.