The Winter Gardens

Like an old poet or civil servant.
Is that fluff on your jacket and a
Pen in your breast pocket?
Can I have your autograph?

My elder, my father, on the old
Concrete steps of the Winter Gardens.
Is that a bag in your hand or
Just the way you lean?

Planted there like some old
Shubbery, wherefrom comes your
Elegance? Can I have some?
From the ancestors of my clan?

What bearing becomes you.
Knitted vest like I wore, the
Smart Harris Tweed jackets
Were the smartest on us yet.

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