Cannock Chase
Daily down to Cannock Centre
Strides the ageing lady, Trish.
Knees and back now worn have bent her.
Yet she likes to dream she's fit.
Head held high and proud eyes shining,
Past the college built round mining
And the bowling green triangle
Where our white-capped players wrangle.
Seats suggest it's time to linger - by the bandstand rails she'll sit.
Golite jacket in cold weather
Keeps her warm and looking smart.
Fashion boots in suede or leather,
Matching gloves and scarf are part
Of a picture cool and crispy.
Hidden hair is white and wispy.
Nearing eighty, yet so nifty,
She'd look good if only fifty.
Yet her breathing's somewhat laboured showing signs of failing heart.
Paper shop her destination,
Where they keep the Times for T.
Noting Barclays renovation,
Boots the Chemists next she'll see.
Cannock town's regeneration
Is a cause for celebration.
Past and present mingle briefly.
Mines are closed and now it's chiefly
Pubs and clubs with supermarkets - no more coal dust floating free.
By the ring road is the station,
Where the buses wheel around,
Midlands towns their destination,
One a day for London bound.
Monuments record past glory.
Mine museums tell coal's story.
And the Royal British Legion
Stands unchanged within the region
Of the Park and pretty gardens, tennis courts and golfing ground.
Middlesex
This poem I wrote in imitation of John Betjeman's 'Middlesex', reproduced below. Ruislip Gardens was the station for my Aunt Fanny's home, and my Uncle Dick in Dublin knew John Betjeman while the poet was stationed in the British Embassy in Dublin during the war in the early 1940s.
Gaily into Ruislip Gardens
Runs the red electric train,
With a thousand Ta's and Pardon's
Daintily alights Elaine;
Hurries down the concrete station
With a frown of concentration,
Out into the outskirt's edges
Where a few surviving hedges
Keep alive our lost Elysium - rural Middlesex again.
Well cut Windsmoor flapping lightly,
Jacqmar scarf of mauve and green
Hiding hair which, Friday nightly,
Delicately drowns in Drene;
Fair Elaine the bobby-soxer,
Fresh-complexioned with Innoxa,
Gains the garden - father's hobby -
Hangs her Windsmoor in the lobby,
Settles down to sandwich supper and the television screen.
Gentle Brent, I used to know you
Wandering Wembley-wards at will,
Now what change your waters show you
In the meadowlands you fill!
Recollect the elm-trees misty
And the footpaths climbing twisty
Under cedar-shaded palings,
Low laburnum-leaned-on railings
Out of Northolt on and upward to the heights of Harrow hill.
Parish of enormous hayfields
Perivale stood all alone,
And from Greenford scent of mayfields
Most enticingly was blown
Over market gardens tidy,
Taverns for the bona fide,
Cockney singers, cockney shooters,
Murray Poshes, Lupin Pooters,
Long in Kensal Green and Highgate silent under soot and stone.