As any good poem is always ending,
The fence looks best when it first needs mending.
Weathered, it hints it will fall to pieces —
One day, not yet, but the chance increases
With each nail rusting and grey plank bending.
It’s not a wonder if it never ceases.
In beauty’s bloom you can see time burning:
A lesson learned while your guts are churning.
Her

Disagree with half of it, enjoy reading all of it
TRY 3 MONTHS FOR $5
Our magazine articles are for subscribers only. Start your 3-month trial today for just $5 and subscribe to more than one view
Already a subscriber? Log in
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in