This England

First the Mayor called the meeting to
order
And said they’d a lot to get through,
So if they didn’t mind, to get off on’t right
lines,
He’d like to put his point of view.
He thought they might go for a sort of
tableau
Wi’ people standing about
All in fancy dress, and a Loyal Address
Which he, of course, would read out.
“Nay, nay”, said Fred Day, “That’s not
the way,
We could make the whole town look nice.
In my shop I’ve got flags and bunting and
banners —
And all at a very good price.”
“Or....”, said Mrs. Hare, the patissiere,
“Why don’t we just have a party?
Give the children a treat, with plenty to eat:
If you like I could feed them right hearty.
“I’d give each child a drink, and some jelly
I think,
And a sandwich with lovely fresh bread;
For each child I’d bake a small fancy cake —
And all for just £5 a head.”
A dusting of snow ices the ancient roofs of Chester Cathedral. Once an abbey and with a history
spanning 1,000 years many prayers have been said here but one in particular has been requested
by a reader.
CLINT HEACOCK
Give me a healthy mind, Good Lord,
To keep the good and pure in sight;
Which seeing sin is not appalled,
But finds a way to set it right.
Give me a mind which is not bored,
That does not whimper, whine or sigh;
Don’t let me worry over much
About the fussy thing called ‘I’.
Give me a sense of humour, Lord,
Give me the grace to see a joke;
To get some happiness from life,
And pass it on to other folk.
Thank you once again for the many
poems that you send in to me. I never
cease being amazed by the literary abilities
of This England readers. Unfortunately,
space limitations mean I only have
the chance to publish a few in each issue
— and many of these have been on
file for years as you can tell from this
poem, sent in to me by Grace Smith of
Clacton-on-Sea, Essex. Written by her
husband Gordon, it is a humorous poem
about discussions on how to celebrate the
Queen’s Jubilee.
THE JUBILEE
At the Town Hall they convened a meeting
And people were let in for free
To consider a suitable function
To mark the Queen’s Jubilee.
In the chair was the Mayor, the Vicar was
there,
And most of the councillors too;
There were several who came ’cos they’d
summat to say
And a few ‘cos they’d nowt else to do.
Although the bracken is browning and the air
is sharp with frost, a walk through Twigmoor
Woods, Scunthorpe, Lincolnshire, on a crisp
November morning is a delight. The month is
portrayed in a poem written by a reader, see
this page.
JOHN F. WHITAKER
“FIVE POUND?” cried John Phipps,
“Why my Fish and Chip
Shop’ll charge you not five pound
but three.
They’ll get chips on a platter, fresh cod in
batter,
Mushy peas, and a nice cuppa tea.”
“Now that’s quite enough”, t’Vicar cried in
a huff,
“We’re supposed to be planning a tribute;
But you’re all on about what you can get out
Instead of what you can contribute...
“I therefore propose that this meeting be
closed
And we go home in quiet contemplation;
And while on the way you may care to pray
For the Queen of so selfish a nation.”
So the meeting broke up in confusion
And nothing was settled just then,
And I never did hear the conclusion;
Of what was done, who did, and when.
And we end on rather a chilly note —
David Fleming of Barnhill, Dundee,
has sent in poem entitled “November” that
is evocative enough to make you put on the
central heating!
Stone-built villas, as mysterious as forgotten
symphonies,
Wait in damp gardens which hold the rotting
remains of summer’s splendour.
Leaves scurry in the streets like hungry
crowds with rumours of bread;
Forgotten extras of a silent film.
The wind hurries from the sea,
A tossing sheet of grey,
And rain patters through this tired, lost year
As we await celebrations
And the coming of snow.
THIS ENGLAND, Winter, 2017 33