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He wrote of other loves; of Cornish surf
And thrift and gorse and squelch of bladder-wrack,
And mashie-niblicks on the seaside turf
And things we’ve lost that never will come back.
Who else has sung of Bude and Anglesey,
Prestatyn, Rhyl, Minehead and Felixstowe,
The level wastes of mud at Leigh-on-Sea,
Where children with their nannies used to go?
He loved the Church of England, Evensong,
Ancient and Modern in the old box pews.
But is it true?, he asked, and all along
Death was the constant shadow of his muse.
He was assailed by doubt, but not by debt.
He joked a lot and must have thought it funny:
He never was a businessman, and yet
His writing made an awful lot of money.
Collected Poems sold two million. Wow!
What price those sneering lofty critics now?
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