September fresh we start anew, by early autumn nipped to ruddy life.
New season’s paint has reddened smooth my fragrant iron resting place.
The terrace choir’s achant, brown baritone and tenor bright
as holy Bruno climbs from briar censers and Bovril salts my tongue.
And there you stand,
Brylcream slick and shiny shoed,
your china blues ablaze,
your Woodbine-yellowed fingers, shoveled thick and calloused kind
And I, thrilled by bigness smalling me, otherness calling me,
Gifted, belonging and beckoned on, I know
from you I will not run for fancied wealth to slops
nor break my bonds for freedom-false but rest
and thrill at what will one day be.
Then as pigeons flap from floodlight frame and haloed, hover,
echoes down the years:
“This is my beloved
in whom I am,
in whom I am well,
in whom I am, well, pleased.”
Just in case you are interested there's an annotated version on my Scribd page. You know, like the ones you can buy for Shakespeare, Plath and Hopkins ;-)