Fan Letter to Betjamin
The crumpets, and sunsets, a set won at three,
countryside dashing to afternoon tea;
dull tick of a clock at the end of the day,
as the 'help' pulls the curtain at passing away.
Of Bovril, of Ajax, of chewed Merry Maids,
of England, its seasides, its sadness and shades;
circling Terns evoked on the waves,
cove crashing Atlantic, or bright esplanade.
Bicycled churches tucked behind leas,
noting the sedge, and the changing of leaves.
Declaring that houses belong on the ground
and the love of child is deeply, greatly, profound.
The anger at the mock-timber peroxide-wavey-set
with their boorish way of remembering always to forget.
At 189 Cadogen Square they all sleep safer now, and,
bombs do far less damage than planners do to Slough.
The window smashing Teds, are all safe tucked in beds
in retirement homes. Though the way you said
their Monica, still tickles me to laughter: as among the broken glass
you documented something lost in the breaking broken past,