U3A Writing: Southly
In this poem Philip Sibley wonders whether a desire to escape from dripping, lead-slagged skies made Britain once masters of the sea.
It is for ever twilight
In this Norseman land.
Ever dripping mistly
From lead slag skies.
Umbrellas lining walkways
When elsewhere tree palms grow.
The warmth that nature needs
Electric, fusty, artificial,
Found in tap rooms, stores,
And shadowed dwellings.
Where are the dusty tracks,
The sun warmed stones,
On which sandaled feet
Walk with youthful stride?
Soft cotton hats
Shielding the eyes,
Soaking in the dew
From moistly brows.
Bare arms breathing
The aromatic air.
Is this what made us once
The masters of the sea?
Instincts dredged
From long times past,
A need to find the lands
Of grape and citron,
Nutmeg and frangipani?
To follow the birds
On salted winds
Driving us southly.
