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Best Georgian Poems

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The Best Georgian Poems

Details | Georgian Poem | |

And still i drive - part one

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And sadly...i start to drive.
Through the unremarkable village with its tall 
Georgian Bay window panes, lightless,
devoid of visages; outwardly staring back at my 
Abject countenance with detached contempt and utter disdains.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And i start to drive.
But arriving at the brew i am compelled to ease upon
The pressured brake,
For, at the slowly closing level-crossing with its red lantern gate, 
The tolling bell insists i stop...and patiently wait.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
As once again i prepare to drive.
At last, in rapid haste, the late commuter train 
Has rattled by -
Within:The snoozing jostled crowds and deceitful 
Drunken brokers that boozily sigh.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall... 
But stars do not lie.
Away now from Littlehamptons smothering, towered,
Blue-stepping climes,
Where, high upon high, wheeling fat-bellied gulls
With angry squawks viciously dispute their scavenged finds.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not die.
Motoring downwards to ancient Aruns sheep-strewn 
Meadows and thin grass plains;
Past black flint-knapped walls girdling squat Tudor abodes;
Along the oak and Elm treelined roads 
And winding green verged lanes.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Past the dimly lit little ramshackle station where you welcomed
him in;
Here gently retiring Larkin did once alight 
To muse at a noble dukes tomb
And his boastful castle of grey, hewn-stone might!

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not cry. 
Travelling alongside these thorny lines of Hawthorn hedge,
Where the cunning Stoat and slinking Weasel reside,
That do so ably divide 
A long forgotten, once bustling,
Feudal countryside.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars shall not deny.
Each side: Fields of Harvest mouse and blackened Vole
Beneath the hushed, brown feathered wing -
So rips the sharp beak! 
So deathly the talon!
Swooping upon the heath where brown Linnets sing.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Following the deep sided Rifes where the farmers boy 
In olden days did so joyfully run -
And wade the sharply tinkling shallow Bournes with excitable 
Barking hounds and readied hunting gun.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not lie.
Standing upright, like troops aside their barrack beds,
the ranks of stiffly rattling thatching reeds encouraging 
Spearwort and sedge;
Where the chugging long-legged hens slide across slow glides:
Thus cleverly disguise and hide their speckly eggs.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not die.
And still i drive. Across the hushed and vigilant lands of
Silvery streams
Where glistening otters, safely holted,
Whistle within their slumbering dreams.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not cry.
And still i ride. Past the frozen woods of blasted trees
Sheltering the demure deer shying from night time chill;
And tumbling badgers rolling at ease
Upon dry-cracked carpets of rustling, black spotted, molding leaves.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars shall not deny.
From ancient glade to ancient glade
Where a Gaulic conquerer made an Anglo-Saxon a slave;
And here this Norman dismounted and stood, 
Domesday within his grasp, his thumb between a parchment page.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Exhorting upon my labouring engine to gain the crest 
of yet another leaping hill;
Below: Globular luminosities, distant blobs, sleeping hamlets,
Dwindling narrow cornered streets, 
Misted frills so vacant and still.

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Accompanied by the gleeful, ever gurgling sounds
That wind their way down the sloping downs
To unselfishly feed the constant demands of the neat, red-shingled, 
West Sussex towns.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
Under this vastness of great yawning cosmic sublimes
Ebbing upon the waves of galactic oceans swelling above:
Straddled by eternal Orion with belted sword and terrible club!

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
For as i pass those goodly villages and towers, sneaking a peek,
I look out over the dark outlined shapes and spires:
Wonder i upon that furrowed brow, that crimson cheek -
Did you quietly cry, blaze and rage, or fall you into deep troubled sleep?
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
And still i drive.
But sunrises horizons will surely arrive;
And i feel so weak as i readjust myself to the reclined seat.
For i have miles and miles to drive
Before that welcoming bed that i do most earnestly seek...
Lends to me - and sweeps away my exhausted feet!

Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not lie.
My heavy heart embedded like an anchor deep within
Your reef of sighs;
As motoring over Portsbridge creek my engine flies:
Little painted craft pushing laboriously against the current 
Of a Solents double tide.
A brief glimpse of a lit up bridge, a safe harbour:
The beautiful river Hamble
Where the millionaires yachets reside
Secured and snugly moored
Against a picturesque quayside.
Stars fall under failing skies...stars fall...stars fall...
But stars do not die.
Standing tall and proud, refuting Hampshires Pompey winds,
Beached "Sails of the South" of wide fame renown;
When, rushing in: resounding waves of indifferent sounds -
Crashing over Portseas spray-lashed rocks to remorselessly pound!

Copyright © john fleming

More great poems below...

Details | Georgian Poem | |

Wonderful Worthing Promenade Part 1

Five miles of neatly spaced suckered palm planted 
Bustling promenade,
Not withstanding a provincial cafe-culture 
Of restaurants and exciting little bars,
Enhance upon regal elegance of the crammed hotels
Regency period style facades;
Their fashionable shadows slowly lifting and slowly falling
Across the lines of deferentially, slowly moving cars.

Trundling on down Marina Parade,
Some, perhaps, making their way onto Brighton road:
Day trippers and boisterous holiday makers for Lancing,
Shoreham and the other side of Hove.
Happy lovers, sedentary couples, retired gentlemen casually dressed
In their slacks and checked tweeds,
Kids with plastic spades and empty buckets;
Strolling parents pulling back hard on taut leads -
wrestling with overly excited, barking hounds of all types and all breeds.

Boastful flat Georgian roofs and ionic columns of dazzling lilacs,
Primrose and purest whites...
Oh what marvelously pleasing lines of sublime English Riviera -
Greek revival delight.
Pediments, decorative cornice, dormiers, bracketed balconies...
And dare i say: just a touch of Queen Anne?
Town of exquisite par excellence - so perfectly genteel -
So spick and so span!

Long gone: The Dragoons, the smugglers, the looters, the wreckers
And hoarders;
Now out in the Channel: Bathers, windsurfers, and sailors
Brave the crested waves of warming blue waters.
Long gone: The boatbuilders, the fishing smacks, the old salts 
Who wound upon these rusting Capstans that hauled the steel hawsers;
Trapped within shimmering mirages, just hazy distortions
That confuse and bewilder: The spotter, the tourist, the after-lunch walkers.

Elegant Pavilion Theatre, crowned with Mansard liken lead dome roofs,
Aesthetically combine
As grandest frontage to your magnificent Victorian pier
Of eighteen sixty one: Stream-Line - Art Deco design.
Wailing gulls, screaming at crashing rollers, tumble over and over
Beneath cloudless days,
Aligning on smooth painted rails held proudly aloft -
Iron legs running defiantly out into Britannias ruling waves.

Frothing Spumes teasing with Golden curls frolic atop 
Of the grey speckled foams,
That stooping, scoop up and scatter upon a pebbled beach:
With ancient Coombe rock, polished flints and rattling multicoloured stones.
Slatted timber Groynes and revetments sympathize 
Amidst the wretched sands forlorn, despairing groans;
Longshore drifts incessant lap, lap, lap, lullaby drowning out
An objectionable, long-suffering coastlines mournful, ill-fated undertones.


Copyright © john fleming

Details | Georgian Poem | |

The Bard of the Cotton Fields

Attached to the trees,
...of his mind’s fascination.
Caressing virgin pages 
With a borrowed pen.
Trapped in a time...
...of being owned by someone.
Where freedom was only, 
for the birds in the wind.

He’s heard of New York,
He’s heard of LA...
These are the thoughts,
He shares with the moon...
The humid day...
...blows dust on his face.
His father runs over,
 “Get ta pickin’ boy soon!!!”

The freedom has silenced,
Reality...came back to mind.
No one’s ready for the truth he uncovered, 
Not even the land...that he proudly calls home.
Freedom does exist...
Within the mind of a poet.
Not just in the sky... 
Where the freedom bird’s flown.

At his father’s request,
He starts pickin’...pickin’ inspiration...
.. on desolate plantations of lies,
...of his father’s 40 acres and a mule.
Shackled to his dreams,
The wind whispers slavery’s sorrow...
Hummed by the workers abroad.
Lord, this boy’s not a cotton pickin’ fool.

Uneducated...his creations are sketches,
Poems in pictures of young boy dreams...
In the midst of slavery...he’s only a slave to his art, 
And only...on the page can he run and play...
His the worker’s song ...pickin’ cotton blues,
The rhythm of chains, and whistles of security afar.
For now...he sneaks off to his muse...a shade tree,
Hiding from the hot Georgian sun at bay. 

While American kids ride their bicycles,
His recess is confined to his mind.
As the whistles grow farther into the distance,
It’s time for his imagination to play and run.
With bloody hands...he hums aloud,
Cooled by the un-racial breeze...caressing virgin pages...
...sketching his poems with a borrowed pen,
Under the very tree...where his forefather’s hung from...

Note: Inspired by the work of Christopher Higgins

Copyright © Raul Moreno

Details | Georgian Poem | |

Pathmark Perversity - New York

Cucumbers, celery and stem-vine tomatoes
were hobnobbing with my Russett potatoes.
Pears and plums and one Georgian peach
winked at the Wisk and Snuggled the bleach.
Pretzels and popcorn and the Tostitos chips
ogled in awe as Meyer's bacon strips stripped!
Mr. Clean and Mrs. Dash espied a risqued art - 
when double-clipped coupons tainted the cart!

Copyright © John Heck

Details | Georgian Poem | |

The Transience of Experience

What is my conception of love?
Now that I let me straw hat rest 
On the rocks of Moses’ teachings
 Now that I behold robins pick my seeds

What is my conception of love?
Love is an old cotton Djellaba
I wear early sometime in December 
When Goethe’s muse rambles alone
The deserted Georgian streets of Borjomi

Eliza found a perennial Canadian love
Probably in the wings of a broken dove
She tends to it by late May rosewater
Sadly, she shuns the idea of a second abandonment 

You know that I know that nothing remains the same
Not even my grandmother’s sesame candies 
Let me just sip alone those cups of rusty mirage

My brown Turkish beret shall rest alone
On the broken trim of a shaded window
Overlooking a battered copy of Truth and Method

Copyright © Elhabib Louai

Details | Georgian Poem | |

Moreton Lodge Memories

Filtered through memory's lens, its lemon-sharp light,
pink bells of fuchsia softly ring a kaleidoscope swirl of sunlight,
coaxing shade from corners near the door of chequered black-and-white.
On the pastel patio scarlet splashes of geranium flame and ignite,
feather-fronds of wisteria frame the nine-pane Georgian windows,
sun-warmed stone walls are cooled and quenched by moss-soft shadows.

The house keys of childhood handed over to industrialization;
memories betrayed for financial lure, though flowers
still bloom and bow pink belled heads at memory's door.
Driving past I see the concrete encroachment; the husk of the house,
the smashed skull of the roof; broken bones of a past that recedes,
fettered and netted in ivy ropes, foundering under weeds.

Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot

Details | Georgian Poem | |

The Manchester Ship Canal - Part One

Glancing down from breathless heights,
Amidst climey sighs,
The looming colossus awakens from slumber
And stretches across Thelwalls linear skies.
The hot engines hissing steam -
Recalled from fond memories long back -
Tumbling like huffing little rain clouds
Down from the lofty metal track; 
Wherein brightly painted carriages:
The publicans daughter, the verger,
The magistrate, the chief executive - 
Seated first class, all habitually sat.
Swift grandiose arches, a celebration
Trumpeting the artful masons cunning devise,
Boast loudly of the great towers
Parallelogram of terrific forces:
Crossing over in giant leaping strides.

Here below, like Hercules reclining,
The stoic gates of Latchfords black fortress locks
Lift to brace against the immense swell
Far and beyond the chimming remarks
Of Greenhalls absolute, mechanically proven,
Georgian bell;
When, ensconced within a purpose-built, 
Purple brick tower:
Strikes the centuries old brewery clock
On the twelfth  
Of every God given hour.

A rich bankers cantilever 
Pushes doggedly against opposing, sheer, 
Red Sandstone walls;
Again the mauve and azure rock pigeon claps...
And then...coo, coo, cooingly calls.
Dry buzzing heat blurs over 
The hum of a high noons imcumbent midday;
The coup-de-gras scimitar wing stoops -
To fasten onto its slower-witted prey!

Steeped sides slipping amidst tumbling yellow
Gorse and sporadic flowers
Balk at the foreboding waters edge,
Where, over the denizens swirling bowers,
The resolute little rusting lugger,
Puffing and chugging,
relentlessly dredges and scours;
Churning the murky Eastham silts
That drab Manchester draw:
Into the vast hollowing quays 
On beachless, concrete Salfords industrialized,
High-rise dockland shore.

Through the deepest part of the black 
A salt grimed hulk smoothly slips...
Attached by a twisted hemp to the tugboat
That hauls the great ships.
Stirred by the bow waves
Flowing and ebbing like currents in time:
From the trough to the peak
The jettison and flotsam climbs -
Before succumbing to powerful undercurrents 
Of irresistible designs!

Copyright © john fleming

Details | Georgian Poem | |

Autumn's Breath

The crisp evening air whispers into the ear of the artist- announcing that the oh so brief season of Summer draws near it's end.  Summer's end brings forth the beginning of yet another season of wonder- known simply as Fall.  
Also known as Autumn it comes forth in full force accompanied by it's array of roasted toasted shades of red, yellow and orange.  The vibrant Fall colors inspired the "Group of Seven" time and time again to pick up their brushes and palettes all in hopes of capturing even but a small piece of this season of wonder built on roasting hot colors created by none other than "Mother Nature" herself.

The "Group" tried to paint many pictures of this natural beauty before time ran out on this glorious season  of fiery colors.  Paint brushes worked feverishly against the many canvas- each trying to capture the "Indian Summer" with it's palette of warm cozy colors.

Suddenly the Lone Loon called out- his black siloette piercing the rays of the moon sitting atop of the dark water better known as "Georgian Bay" to some.  His farewell call announces to all that the time has come to put down their brushes and ready themselves to head back to the cities of gray from whence they came.

Comfort comes to all in thoughts to the future in which they will return to these sacred waters to be greeted once again by the call of the Lone Loon.  Pulling out their tools of trade yet again with the desire to try once more in capturing hold of the fiery colors of this season that always seems to elude them! Each and every time the "Group" returns to this land of natural beauty it never ceases to take their breaths away.  

Putting Brush to Canvas they try to take hold of the essence of the Northern Autumn.
Alas all the time knowing that copies will never compare to the original work of art- better known as "Mother Nature's Northern Masterpiece" to all that bestow it!

Copyright © Pamela-anne Kinney

Details | Georgian Poem | |

At Cafe Bacho / Lali Tsipi Michaeli

At Cafe Bacho

This evening we sat in Cafe Bacho on King George street after 
House of the Flying Daggers 
The most poetic film I ever saw 
I said 
And I sank into a romantic triangle 
which is not possible with this bizarre 
waitress with a chopped hair-cut 

I said to her 
that she is special 
She said 
So are you 

Then I reminded my ex-husband that a sentence can lie within another sentence 
He used to hold my hand with courage for courage's sake 
Tears fell down my cheeks and sank in the jasmine tea, 
which the waitress 

Maybe it’s she who really made me cry 

She seemed like a Christian Georgian woman in a homely pub in Tbilisi 
You said: 
The cushions are over here 

You mentioned that Erez called and didn't mention me 
You said: 
He got burnt 
Not a word about 

I said that I also thought about him 

I said that Oren called 

And you explained how she died a mysterious death she the poetess 
Who went after anyone who wanted her 
In Eilat 
An investigation won’t bring the words back 

I spoke with a free spirit 
But the butterfly didn't fly

translated from Hebrew:
Michael Simkin

Copyright © Lali Tsipi Michaeli

Details | Georgian Poem | |

H. P. Lovecraft (1890-1937)

Restoring far-off times, 
With stilted, Georgian rhymes,
He tried repealing Fate
Two centuries too late.

And when he saw the worth 
Of poems dead at birth,
He turned his pen to write
Strange fantasies at night.

Then when the morning came,
He signed his unknown name.
To one more priceless page
Forgotten by his Age.

Forgotten, all except
For friends who paid their debt
By publishing him till
His fame no Fate can kill.

Copyright © Steve Eng

Details | Georgian Poem | |

The Demise Of Hotel Upson

Thick cloudy sky filled with tears__woe
Crying at the swiftly passing era
No more old generation__new day
The passage into a modern time

A time all its own with difference
Whole set of problems separates it
From times that have gone by but yet__same
History tends to repeat itself

Demise of Hotel Upson brought thought
A time of reflection to many
To some joy that ugly eye sore__gone
Others landmark history removed

Today in America there is 
A church or more on every street
Evil, lawlessnes, drugs on the beats
Gangs, violence, road rage, and much more

It seems times like when the Hotel raised
Back in Nineteen twenty eight are gone 
A simple time when families, friends
Was an important part of the plan

That hotel was built solid and strong
Built to withstand the test of hard times
Who would have thought its hey-day would end
With a track-hoe beating its walls in

Its architecture was a simple 
Design Georgian Revival Style of
Red brick trimmed in limestone best in day
Had a ballroom, elevators, air

No matter it is no longer there
Gone forever to C&D landfill
No even sold to reuse the parts
That made it the best in its day__gone

Copyright © Sara Kendrick

Details | Georgian Poem | |


There's inspiration in a leaf, the sun 
the sky, a newborn baby's hungry cry, 
the politics of men, the art of zen; 
it's in his eyes, the robin tugging worms 
that brings us spring, an empty backyard swing, 
the price of gas, the passion of a soul 
who's reaching out for dreams that never come 
guilt free; a single rose, a mother's grief 
for sons and daughters lost before their time, 
your friends and mine, the coupled grace that dwells 
where hearts know love, the cooing of a dove, 
in winter's white-washed face, an eddy's spin, 
the colors ending summer's shading green, 
in haunting longings that deny a face 
its smile; it's in the quest for inner peace, 
loblolly Georgian pines that carry tunes 
of singing frogs that brings your mind back home; 
you'll find it in a bite of birthday cake, 
your father's wake, a graduation's pomp 
and circumstance, the solitary dance 
of someone's loneliness and private tears, 
the hell from raging fears; it's in the wind, 
the moon and evening stars, and in the end, 
it's essence is the breath of memory. 
In life is where a poet finds his words.

Copyright © maggie flanaganwilkie

Details | Georgian Poem | |

Kahlia Akasha Is Back

Kahlia Akasha Is Back
We armed our jet with 8 anti ship missiles. Every single under wing weapon pylon was spoken for. Under fuselage drop tank full of fuel, in front of that  a twin barrel 30mm gun with 200 armour piercing shells. We where forward based on a dusty coastal track in southwest India. 
The Pak navy sank the Indian aircraft carrier and Sea Harriers so we can’t use her as a springboard. On the beach, fuel topped up, weapons armed, final checks done. We took off heading west to engage the Pakistan navy. To sink their ex British and American destroyers. Just as they sank the ex Brit carrier India had used. Mad. 
Nice low slow cruise 50ft above the choppy fog laden sea. 200knots, 220mph. She would touch 530mph but we had to go slow, we had 8 ships to kill. My wife flew our plane in the back cockpit. I caressed the juicy missiles below our stealth fighter plane. Used infrared to scan ahead, just ghostly images hidden by the fog. I tried the laser range finder, so many readings due to the shifting fog. Radar! Two scans, off. There! The 1st Pak navy ship, a Type21 Frigate ex Royal Navy. Let’s do an Argy and sink it! Our Chain Head missiles are better than Exocet, 25yrs ahead in tech and lethality. 
My wife kept our jet 50ft above the ocean, our grave if she hated me. I confirmed, 'Missile 1 locked on, missile 2 ready to lockup any new target,' then my lady lifted our port wing. Unbalancing me, just illusion. Enough room for our weapon to launch without hitting the sea, our right wing 20ft above the sea! A big wave would swamp us. Mad! 
Away! Orange bright flare devil roar missile away. Radar on again to sweep ahead, weapon merging with Pak ship 80 miles ahead. Time to turn gently away; we have 7 more ships to find in the fog and coming night. We’re a ghost unseen below enemy radar, slow to save fuel we have forever to do our job. Sink the Pak navy. Any survivors in the water will get 30mm shells if we don’t shoot up any ships still afloat. Let’s hope our missiles work, I don’t want to strafe some drowning men, let the sea slowly claim them. 
Our black painted Soviet prop jet fighter slides through the evening fog as a distant orange flash flares and dies. 7 anti ship missiles left. We’ll evade their 40yr old mirage jets... 
This story/poem is my 4th Kahlia Akasha one, the others being in my 3rd book A Nation in Flames: Short Story Collection, out to order on amazon. This warplane is multi role including nuclear capable. Her real title is Aeroprogress T-720. She was never built due to the death of the cold war. This looks to be starting again. Would she be reborn, even more dangerous and deadly? After all the Russians will need a replacement for the Sukhoi Su-25 Frogfoot, a 30yr old attack jet. They lost several, blown out of the sunny Georgian skies in August 2008. Georgian missiles shot them down, David fighting Goliath. Would my Kahlia Akasha escape being shot down over Georgia? We’ll never know. She is stealth capable, has active radar jamming system, chaff and flares to decoy missiles, extreme performance and agility, small size, high technology. She isn’t invulnerable but more survivable than a Frogfoot. All I have are my own design studies, theoretical. I ask what if?

Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex

Details | Georgian Poem | |

Journey '01

I hold three magic rocks, in my hand
Rolling them over and over and over
Leaving this reality behind, far behind
Standing alone again.
Elated by a false sense of freedom,
Contemplating surrounding,
Paths before closed spaces.
If I were to jump,
Where would I be caught?
Surely not here.
Intoxicated by green,
Tired by my sycophantic nature,
Spidder-webbed within my own self-worth.
Captured by the flashes of occasional spirits.
In death where are we lead?
Exhaling for the last time,
Remembering clearly those very first steps.
Boxed up tightly,
In quiet hums under Georgian trees.
Gathered like dust,
And flushed maybe, amongst the West coast smog?
I look back,
Over years that had fallen and passed.
Back towards you,
To the bedroom where we both lay.
I shall stay here,
Inhaled in your arms.
As you exhale,
I step inside you a while,
Eyes shut and feeling for comfort.
But you do not see me,
I am just a distant memory.
Stepping back out,
Engulfed by the moment.
While you unwind,
Look for emotion:
It's unfounded here.
Where we became lost,
Like so many souls that passed before.
Left to rot upon these beaten paths,
Watching as they take on new rhythms.
Splits turn to deeper cuts.
As these woods they had once found me in,
Become distancing seas,
Unforgiving flows of water,
Bonds and clutches broken.
Swirls of confusion prevent jumping,
As I rush to the edge and then stop,
Toes clutched tightly,
Balanced by a backwards glimpse.
So scared of racing on alone.
Will there ever be another welcoming?
Or did you already outstay yours?
When I awake, where will I be?
Unsure, I'll just climb down.
Running on without you.
For one thing is sure,
Where you are found,
I shall fall.

Copyright © naomi jenkins

Details | Georgian Poem | |

Regency Dandy

                        This Regency Dandy flying across the river,
                        Jumping Jack Flash of kingfisher blue that 

              I was lucky t see, this dainty dandy of English rivers and streams.

                         A compact colourful apparition my sore eyes waited some 

                    Sixty years to see, others boast much earlier visitations of these

              Bluish-green, orange and red feathers attached to a Cyrano De Bergerac 

                                                     rapier beak,

              Outshining the honking harrying flotillas of Canada geese not capable of 

              Competing with this fisher of minnows, as we strolled across the Georgian 

              Bridge at Blatherwycke straddling the nonchalant flowing Nene of this 

                                                  shire of shires,

               Now of only one squire, but still many fine spires in this shire of Northampton.

Copyright © Peter Dorr