There is an England

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