When melancholy Autumn comes to Wembley <br />And electric trains are lighted after tea <br />The poplars near the stadium are trembly <br />With their tap and tap and whispering to me, <br />Like the sound of little breakers <br />Spreading out along the surf-line <br />When the estuary's filling <br />With the sea. <br /> <br />Then Harrow-on-the-Hill's a rocky island <br />And Harrow churchyard full of sailor's graves <br />And the constant click and kissing of the trolley buses hissing <br />Is the level of the Wealdstone turned to waves <br />And the rumble of the railway <br />Is the thunder of the rollers <br />As they gather for the plunging <br />Into caves <br /> <br />There's a storm cloud to the westward over Kenton, <br />There's a line of harbour lights at Perivale, <br />Is it rounding rough Pentire in a flood of sunset fire <br />The little fleet of trawlers under sail? <br />Can those boats be only roof tops <br />As they stream along the skyline <br />In a race for port and Padstow <br />With the gale?<br /><br />John Betjeman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/harrow-on-the-hill/
