The Cheltenham Hotel.

The Cheltenham Hotel.

They grow this way,

Like tousled hair

Blowing in the wind.

Extended branches reaching

Out to the windows

They plead to be let in,

To become part

Of the building,

Wanting to envelop it,

Slowly wrapping arboreal

Fingers around aging

Stonework.

The prevailing wind

Sweeps down the steep hill

And plays havoc

With the chip shot approach.

On the golf course across the lake.

Men in loud,

And interesting clothes

Pull carts and let fly

With occasional oaths,

When they hook a shot

Into the water.

It might not be Augusta

But they dream

The dream of masters,

They might look strange

But not all are fools,

And play their rounds

By Competition rules,

For a token prize of

Just a few pounds,

Or a drink in the bar.

For the most part

The trees obscure

Their view of the windows

And the hotel guests

Can relax in peace,

For a moment or two

Have a nap, take a swim

Steal a kiss, on a whim

Or listen to the sound

Of the trees,

When all they really do is sway

Ever so gently in the wind,

Whilst they grow

A summer coat,

And by some

Strange and wondrous

Metamorphosis,

That if it could

Be captured,

Would be sold,

Bottled or tinned,

The gnarled old

Trees resolve to evolve,

Into a secret, fledgling paradise.