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Grantchester



I’ve walked in the footsteps of Rupert Brooke,

Paddled barefoot in Byron's pool,

Had tea with Mrs Woolfe and Maynard Keynes,

The sky, reminiscent of grandparent's tales of youth

For them then, it was always warm and sunny with a blue haze,

They always finished their tales with the phrase, "not anymore."

Yet today it was, a pre-1940 azure blue sky

Reminiscent of an Arthur or Enid canopy,

The blue above was scratched occasionally by a flotilla

Of white fluffy swallow flagged sailing boats

Gradually changing shape to faces, acrobats even the famous five,

If you watched closely and for long enough

The bright yellow of the afternoon sun reflected on the edge of the clouds,


Orchard Tea Gardens by the banks of the River Cam

Is bathed monochromatically

Other than the brown rusty tin roof of the pavilion

It is mostly a wash of green,

Tall unmanicured grass, and newly mown lawn

The variety of draping leaves,

The lichen on the branches of the trees,

Even the dappled rays of sunlight appear to have a green tinge

Green benches, occupied by afternoon tea with cake connoisseurs

The shutter doors of the servery hall,

The prerequisite sign that name-drops the poets of yesteryear

Showcasing in green those who supped their tea with friends

Or took shelter from the warm summer rains


I sat with all of them in my mind,

Bertrand Russell, Edward Morgan Forster even Wittgenstein

We talked, honestly I talked

Mostly about me, I have to say,

My words, my rhymes,

No one gave any impression that they were even slightly moved

By my ramblings,

They appeared shy,

Reserved,

Possibly dead, it was hard to tell, their written words felt fresh and alive

But I think we had a pleasant afternoon

Granchester hides many literary secrets,

Nothing untold,

Just waiting to be discovered by you and appreciated



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