by John Betjamin (1906-1984)
Yes, it will be bliss
To go with you by train to Diss,
Your walking shoes upon your feet,
We'll meet, my sweet, at Liverpool Street.
That levellers we may be reckoned
Perhaps we'd better travel second;
Or, lest reporters on us burst,
Perhaps we'd better travel first.
Above the chimney pots we'll go,
Through Stepney, Stratford-atte-Bow
And out to where the Essex marsh
Is filled with houses new and harsh
Till, Witham pass'd, the landscape yields
On left and right to widening fields,
Flint church-towers sparkling in the light,
Black beams and weather-boarding white,
Cricket bat willows silvery-green
And elmy hills with brooks between,
Maltings and saltings, stack and quay
And somewhere near, the grey North Sea;
Then further gentle undulations
With lonelier and less frequent stations,
Till in the dimmest place of all
The train slows down into a crawl
And stops in silence .... where is this?
Dear Mary Wilson, this is Diss.
Published by Robin
I'm a retired journalist who still has stories to tell. This seems to be a good place to tell them.
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