St John's Park, New Town

Often I walk alone
Where bronze-green oaks embower
John Lee Archer's tower
Of solid Georgian stone.
Tradition is held there,
Such as a land can own
That hasn't much of one.
I care—but do I care?
Not if it means to turn
Regretful from the raw
Instant and its vow.
The past is not my law:
Queer, comical, or stern,
Our privilege is now.