there is an England
of sycamore trees
dappled in sunlight
their dalmation leaves
standing guard over verges
of ginnels between houses
whose doors bear a welcome,
kettles ever bubbling,
sofas ever dented from
shared laughter at daftness
of ice cream vans
tinkling their way through
the 99 dreams
and the skipping of children,
fists full of piggybank raidings
of dads with tall tales
for wideopen little ears,
their secret codes
of clicks and winks
velcro for wonderment
of bus drivers dispensing
directions like boiled sweets
to confused old wayfarers
in the marathon weave between
bellringing and the door
of post office clerks’
fascination and patience
at a pensioner’s to-do list
exchanged like currency,
new pennies for gold nuggets
of pub quizzers pondering
that one crucial question
they’ll have forgotten when
asked in the morning, wiped
like brows at chuckingout time
of handholding old couples,
ramblers, amblers, schoolteachers,
cookingfat splashed forearms
wrapping lunch in fish and chip
paper gone stale, unread
there is an England
in streetlights and shadows,
in terraces and shops
open hands bearing chipped mugs of tea,
with extra biscuits for pilgrims.
Harry Gallagher
