Vernon Park, Stockport

The steps in Vernon Park

Were made for grandeur.

Three flights with a fine

Stone balustrade

Climb a steep, green hill

To a view you cannot see.

On the left, half glimpsed, Goyt river,

Cascading down Stringer's Weir;

The walk in the woods a mystery,

'River and steps closed' a sign reads. 

On up the empty staircase,

Thronging with ghosts of wedding parties

And all the brides in white,

Still posed where they stood for photographs,

With bouquets to cast aside.

But there's nobody on the terrace above,

Where the grassy slope rolls on,

And nobody strolls with a parasol

Where the rockery goes along.

A pathway winds down to a fountain,

Where the statue plays alone

And a moorhen in solitary splendour

Nests in the reeds of its bowl.

The park is a deserted mansion now,

Its finery stranded outdoors,

The follies all built for sober pleasure

And not for the purpose of balls.

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