‘smiling Spring it’s earliest visits paid’.
With its streets with those evocative names . . .
Birmingham, Manchester, Gloucester, Canterbury, Salisbury.
In a spacious row of attractive cottages
With fine front fences and shady trees behind.
Horse and buggies pass down wide, unpaved avenues
Sloping gently away from the church at the rise.
There was an air of plenty – still bucolic;
the neighbourhood of our humble abode
Where bird song and cricket call dressed ends of day
And clocks tick in the parlour, a good book interrupted
By the welcome pause of tea-time
And a gaze from lounge window reflection;
The barking of a dog.
I’m still looking at a photograph
As a car on bitupave passes
and the far knock-off whistle blows from a factory.
I feel again with my hand
the texture of a passport to untold foreign lands.