Or row on the river with the boys
and the castle on the hill,
and watch the drinkers at the riverside cafes.
Shall we follow the current
to under the willow
to the toothy smiling darkness
behind the door of brushing leaves
and cry 'mind your heads', and laugh.
Or climb the ancient stone-cut steps
between the pastel walls of gardens
with stooping gates
and rusted hand-turned rings to open.
And listen to the sandaled feet
pattered rush to catch the dream
of what might lie dog-legged behind
the corners of the twisting climb.