Wellington Gorse.

A stretch of Mediterranean blue, Girt about by sharply outlined hills, And vaulted by a mass of ever-changing clouds.

This is Wellington—
An unpretentious pile of dwellings
Devoid of beauty.
But every where just now
Is warmth and colour and a glow,
As if the sombre hills
Were flaunting brazenly
A message of defiance
To the smoky chimneys,
And the somewhat blatant respectability
Of a young commercial town.
I climb the jagged hillside,
And along the ridges, till
My heart has caught the golden fragrance
And the flame
Of this gorse.
And when my foolish feet
Have wandered half across the world,
And my eyes are aching with the
Splendour of the East,
I will look into my heart
And see—–Oh, Wellington—
The blazing glory of thy gorse.

—Sheila G. Marshall.