Poem
The Real England Where will you find it? The real England I mean. Not there in those biscuit lid villages Where camera crews are seen And pagan barns converted Fringe the village green. Perhaps beside the motorway Where HGV’s make thunder And weary children in Trembling bunk beds wonder If they’ll ever sleep again. In the statuary of history Or forgotten soldiers’ feet In books by Agatha Christie O r that multicultural beat Amidst these rumpled hills Or sunlight on The Shard In the shadows of old mills Or the wisdom of The Bard. Perhaps beside a river bend Where an angler waits all day As mallards in the shallows Watch tiny ducklings play Regardless of danger. Where will you find it? The real England I mean. Not here where keyboard keys Strive to process what has been - This place of hope and memory The kingdom of a queen. from Yorkshire Pudding https://ift.tt/3u08Hgu