The buzzing bees circulate around the flowers
waspishly congregating around the litter bins.
There is a dull hush of subdued conversation
After all this is England. A gaggle of
Liberated women push buggies and hold tiny
Hands, Two old men shuffle over to a bench.
The slave-built stone mansion squats ugily
As they talk retrospectively, of how generations
Disappear whilst slave-built mansions remain.
Fixed in this landscape as though a natural
Phenomena. We decide to join the queue
For ice creams. Little did I suspect
This would be the last sunny Sunday
We'd spend together before his suicide.
I had an inkling of what might come to pass
With you, my life-long friend, classics scholar
and stoic. 
This ugly slave-built edifice remains
whilst my friends just disappear. 

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