The Palm House


Shimmering above the city lake,
Astride of the fairy glen,
The frosted Victorian Palm House,
Has sprung into life again.
Stirring from a century of abrasive urban mists.
This elegant crystal lady is back to her glitzy best.
Now who can resist her sensuous curves,
From resculptured iron cast?
So seductively clothed,
In her diaphanous robes,
Of the finest of designer cut glass.
Promising such welcome respite,
From the tiresome city noise and grime,
To any weary admirer who would step inside,
And spend a little time.
Clammy handed children with their mothers,
Rambling pensioners and young lovers,
All meandered mesmerised,
Through this transplanted paradise.
A steamy exotic, borrowed world,
Of sweetly textured jungle air.
Its foliage dangling in profusion,
From every tiered height and angle,
Creating an illusion of the tropics,
In that heated slice of domed North of England skies,
Where bougainvillea mix with fragile orchids and trailing vines,
And exotic fruits ripen in the spring sunshine.

And from a white marbled Madonna,
With a child asleep in her arms,
A staircase spirals like a fading mirage,
Right up to heaven through the phoenix palms.


By Terry Clarke