Hark, I hear the bells of Westgate, <br />I will tell you what they sigh, <br />Where those minarets and steeples <br />Prick the open Thanet sky. <br /> <br />Happy bells of eighteen-ninety, <br />Bursting from your freestone tower! <br />Recalling laurel, shrubs and privet, <br />Red geraniums in flower. <br /> <br />Feet that scamper on the asphalt <br />Through the Borough Council grass, <br />Till they hide inside the shelter <br />Bright with ironwork and glass, <br /> <br />Striving chains of ordered children <br />Purple by the sea-breeze made, <br />Striving on to prunes and suet <br />Past the shops on the Parade. <br /> <br />Some with wire around their glasses, <br />Some with wire across their teeth, <br />Writhing frames for running noses <br />And the drooping lip beneath. <br /> <br />Church of England bells of Westgate! <br />On this balcony I stand, <br />White the woodwork wriggles round me, <br />Clocktowers rise on either hand. <br /> <br />For me in my timber arbour <br />You have one more message yet, <br />'Plimsolls, plimsolls in the summer, <br />Oh galoshes in the wet!'<br /><br />John Betjeman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/westgate-on-sea/
