* 6:00 pm Paddington Station

While rummaging in a huge box of my writing which I dragged all the way from Canada with me, I came across this poetry I had written while living in London, England.  The date on the piece is March, 1970.  Reading it again, after all these years, actually made me a little homesick for those days, and the beautiful English countryside.  I'd like to share it with you.

6:00 PM Paddington Station

A sea of faces -
smiling,
serious.
Legs running, hands clutching
heavy cases
and small parcels.
People and trains
hurrying,
coming to
going from.

Outside
the sound of red buses,
the smell of smog,
a drizzle of rain.
Brightly coloured
umbrellas
against a gray sky.
Car horns blaring
angrily.
A traffic jam.
Milling crowds,
moving as one.
Some sad,
some happy,
some numb.
6:00 p.m.
Rush hour in London Town.

6:30  p.m.
The train,
warm inside -
moving slowly at first.
Rocking gently
faster and faster
racing by
warehouses and smoke stacks,
backs of lonely gray
brick buildings
alley ways
and dust bins.
The light fades
leaving only the
warmth of the
train ...
night falls like
a shroud
and in the distance
London glows.
I turn away from the window.
My thoughts turn to you.

8:00 pm,
Westbury station.
A drive through dark
winding roads
to a quiet house
and warm fires.

Cool night air
hot water bottles
and warm cuddly blankets.
The stillness
of the English countryside.
A stillness which is almost
a sound.
The moon,
gliding through
a clear night sky,
sleeping birds,
a stream
to lazy to bubble,
the wind,
tired from its days journey
resting in the trees.
The sounds of night.
The sounds of silence.

Morning.
A distant whistle.
Footsteps on the path.
Birds early morning song.
A restless wind
who has slept too long.
Voices downstairs and
the smell of bacon frying.

A journey
through sleepy villages,
and peaceful countryside
alive with
a charm all its own.
Orange brick and stone fences.
Quiet streams.
Green grass,
thatched roofs and
lazy cattle.
High hills, protecting
tiny towns hidden
deep in the valleys,
away from the
changing hands of time.
Small boys,
and big dogs,
Stone bridges,
cobblestone lanes,
stone churches, lonely and cold.
Churchyards,
Old headstones and memories.

A walk by the
glassy lake.
Moorhens and ducks,
still unaware that
spring has come and
they must build new nests.

A peaceful afternoon, high
in the hills.
The wind, warmed by the sun
against my face and through
my hair.

The clouds play tag with the sun
and make shadows in the valley.

Pussy willows, just waking up
from winter.
Pine trees with long needles.
A carpet of moss and
snowdrops underfoot.

I cross the stream on a narrow tree.
Picking snowdrops.
I laugh and play with the
echo in the hills.

The tulip tree in full bloom,
the view from the front window.
The old mansion,
quiet sheep,
and the little bird house on the
front lawn.

Inside, the warm fire,
Elsa,
laughing, talking,
home cooking,
riddles and rhymes,
old photographs and
stories of childhood days.

Sunday evening.
The weekend almost gone.
Good times pass so quickly.
Time to leave,
Goodbyes.
The train
back to London,
peering out the window
to catch a glimpse of
the house.
A warm compartment,
happy thoughts.

Thanks for dropping by.  Take care.  I hope you are making yourselves a wonderful day.

"We're lost, but we're making good time"
- Yogi Berra