The Golden Throat

Hyde Park autumn,
The golden throat
Sings to me a golden note
As I amble underneath
Every amber-coloured wreath;
I pass a pack of unruly kids
Being ruly, keeping lids
On it, as their teacher
Talks about a feature
Of past lives in which trees
Were regarded as gods;
As I walk, I sneeze,
And my head automatically nods
Like the branches in the breeze,
And as the winter freeze
Moves in off the ocean,
All the gold starts to glow
In slow-motion
And into another dream I go
With a golden notion
About the tree
And what it means to me;
And as I sail on sleep’s boat
Through the golden throat,
The day freshens
With gold expressions.