Gaily into Ruislip Gardens <br />Runs the red electric train, <br />With a thousand Ta's and Pardon's <br />Daintily alights Elaine; <br />Hurries down the concrete station <br />With a frown of concentration, <br />Out into the outskirt's edges <br />Where a few surviving hedges <br />Keep alive our lost Elysium - rural Middlesex again. <br /> <br />Well cut Windsmoor flapping lightly, <br />Jacqmar scarf of mauve and green <br />Hiding hair which, Friday nightly, <br />Delicately drowns in Dreen; <br />Fair Elaine the bobby-soxer, <br />Fresh-complexioned with Innoxa, <br />Gains the garden - father's hobby - <br />Hangs her Windsmoor in the lobby, <br />Settles down to sandwich supper and the television screen. <br /> <br />Gentle Brent, I used to know you <br />Wandering Wembley-wards at will, <br />Now what change your waters show you <br />In the meadowlands you fill! <br />Recollect the elm-trees misty <br />And the footpaths climbing twisty <br />Under cedar-shaded palings, <br />Low laburnum-leaned-on railings <br />Out of Northolt on and upward to the heights of Harrow hill. <br /> <br />Parish of enormous hayfields <br />Perivale stood all alone, <br />And from Greenford scent of mayfields <br />Most enticingly was blown <br />Over market gardens tidy, <br />Taverns for the bona fide, <br />Cockney singers, cockney shooters, <br />Murray Poshes, Lupin Pooters, <br />Long in Kelsal Green and Highgate silent under soot and stone.<br /><br />John Betjeman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/middlesex-2/
