Steeply runs the path down Betjeman Lane,
And swiftly flows the stream that's Letcombe Brook.
We enter through a rusty wrought-iron gate
Arriving at a secret sylvan scene,
Where dancing daffodils in dappled shade
Are swaying to the sound of Wantage bells.
A happy spirit haunts this sunlit grove
Enjoying still the babbling of the brook,
The texture of these red brick walls,
The buzz of bee and chirruping of the birds.
So pause a while, drink in the sights and sounds
Of Nature as she goes about her work.
Apart from the town, this oasis breathes
A peace and quietness in troubled times.
Relax upon a bench in pensive mood
Recall that endearing schoolboy chuckle,
Reflecting on those last irreverent words -
The Last Laugh of our favourite laureate.
Comments about this poem (Betjeman Park by William Messent )
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