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Background
Jim C. Wilson  Poet
‘A true poet —

                              RLS

 

The garden was unending to the child

but Mr Hyde was there, behind each tree.

A high bright sun smiled down; the breeze was mild;

the garden was unending. To the child

the trees were masts. He sailed across the wild

South Seas until he reached his final quay.

His Eden seemed unending; he was beguiled;

and Mr Hyde was there, behind each tree.