This was once innocent,

Joan Hunter Dunn country.

Now behind the rhododendrons,

azaleas, conifers lurk foreigners

with something to hide, money,

identities. They try to conceal

themselves in woodland,

behind fairways. Occasionally

there’s a mystery.

 

There may have been a court case,

or strangers in the neighbourhood.

A rich but shy man

is found dead in circumstances

not easy to explain away.

Another just the other day.  

Terminated with impunity.

Foul play not suspected,

baffled police say, invariably.