Westminster Abbey
if only it could speak
ah... the stories
With an apple a day my cheeks are still flabby
Doesn't delay the inevitable, my bod still gets shabby
Belly covers my hero
Like wearing a pillow
Still, remember the building of Westminster Abbey
Ah, let come this stiffling breeze now to ye all!
Such sweet sap envelops my every pore,
Shall I await for the ever fresh rainfall?
For I fear the amber of daylight no more.
Dormant they recline on fields of white cotton,
while Hermes pulls his cart from the House of York,
and though worries of the day are forgotten,
they tackle me with ever increasing torque.
Dear Lord! The sun, as the Gods, knows no mercy,
it strikes common men on green parks all the same,
the same as the priests from Westminster Abbey,
wildly wields and waves it's scorching blade of Flames.
Ah, let come a fresh breeze to the grass of Hyde,
and may it blow through the city, far and wide.
Long, long ago and longer
When I was but a child
I read of Doctor Livingstone
Who ventured in the wild.
Dr. David had no fear
He went where few had gone.
This missionary and explorer
To Africa was drawn.
The unsophisticated natives
Didn’t know the wealth they had
Allowed Livingstone to name their falls
When he shouted out “Egad.
I’ve found what no white man has seen
I name it ‘Victoria Falls’”.
When back in England he was touted.
But lack of adventure palls.
He was sent back to Africa
To find source of the Nile.
He traveled around that continent
And became lost for a while.
Henry Morton Stanley when he found him, said
“Mr Livingstone I presume?”
He died in the heart of Africa.
Westminster Abbey holds his tomb.
Westminster Abbey,
With all its doors,
Welcomes all,
As church bells implore:
Come now England,
And praise thy Lord,
Drop thy shield,
And sheath thy sword,
So that two hands can pray,
Against discord.
Inside, the pastor guides his flock,
He alone dares cast the rock:
Now, turn thine eyes upon the dead,
And saintly deeds respect,
So that St. Peter at the gates,
Your soul redeems, as he inspects,
Thy actions for misdeeds.
Then thou shalt remember,
The beadman at the door,
Telling his rosary, as to implore:
'Can I stay this cold,cold, night,
And rest in thy corridor?'
Then you'd think,
Not twice, but once,
About thy words, and jests, and jaunts,
Against his prescense on thy step,
Before thy Fell,
or rather, leapt.
Aprils mist…
Easy flowing of mornings gift
Bearing the tidings of baker and fisherman
The phantom fog rolling onward
With melancholy gray tendrils reaching
Into the ancient alleyways of Tower Hamlet
Over the roof of great Westminster Abbey
Seizing the city in its siege of silence
Here I walk…
Enraptured in its placidity
Balancing upon the edges of grief and delight
While Big Ben echoes the hour
And the gulls cry out from Canary Wharf
I walk the streets of my ancestors’ city
Traversing through fog of centuries past
Waiting for its hand to envelop me
For a moment I am home...