
Sir John Betjeman
Meditation On The A30
A man on his own in a
Is revenging himself on his wife;
He open the throttle and bubbles with
And puffs at his pitiful
Trebetherick
We used to picnic where the
Grew deep and tufted to the edge;
We saw the yellow foam flakes
In trembling sponges on the
Diary Of A Church Mouse
Here among long-discarded cassocks,
Damp stools, and half-split open hassocks,
Here where the vicar never looksI nibble through old service books
Lean and alone I spend my
Executive
I am a young executive
No cuffs than mine are cleaner;
I have a Slimline brief-case and I use the firm's Cortina
In every roadside hostelry from here to Burgess
Slough
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a
Swarm over,
Harrow-On-The-Hill
When melancholy Autumn comes to
And electric trains are lighted after
The poplars near the stadium are
With their tap and tap and whispering to me,
Winter Seascape
The sea runs back against
With scarcely time for breaking
To cannonade a slatey
And thunder under in a cave
The Irish Unionists Farewell To Greta Hellastrom In 1922
Golden haired and golden heartedI would ever have you be,
As you were when last we
Smiling slow and sad at me
Oh
Myfanwy
Kind o’er the kinderbank leans my Myfanwy,
White o’er the playpen the sheen of her dress,
Fresh from the bathroom and soft in the
Soap scented fingers I long to caress
The Plansters Vision
Cut down that timber
Bells, too many and strong,
Pouring their music through the branches bare,
From moon-white church-towers down the windy
Ireland With Emily
Bells are booming down the bohreens,
White the mist along the grass,
Now the Julias,
Maeves and
South London Sketch
From Bermondsey to
So many churches are,
Some with apsidal chancels,
Some