A Brief Pageant of English Verse
I won’t arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
I’ll sanitize the doorknob and make a cup of tea.
I won’t go down to the sea again; I won’t go out at all,
I’ll wander lonely as a cloud from the kitchen to the hall.
There’s a green-eyed yellow monster to the north of Katmandu
But I shan’t be seeing him just yet and nor, I think, will you.
While the dawn comes up like thunder on the road to Mandalay
I’ll make my bit of supper and eat it off a tray.
I shall not speed my bonnie boat across the sea to Skye
Or take the rolling English road from Birmingham to Rye.
About the woodland, just right now, I am not free to go
To see the Keep Out posters or the cherry hung with snow,
And no, I won’t be travelling much, within the realms of gold,
Or get me to Milford Haven. All that’s been put on hold.
Give me your hands, I shan’t request, albeit we are friends
Nor come within a mile of you, until this trial ends.
This rather brilliant little verse arrived in the SF inbox recently from our contributor Alastair Glegg. No one seems to know who wrote it, but it certainly strikes a note with me. Out of my study window I can see fat woodpigeons pecking at the red berries on the hawthorn tree at the bottom of the garden, and the grass in the park is strewn with conkers.
From Hazel Wood, Highbury, 23 October 2020
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