900 

Dover to Canterbury (day two)

A little coaxing from our host

And we are into fruit and toast

Before we sigh and gird

Ourselves for the scrambled eggs and bacon,

Tomatoes and fried bread; all taken

Without dissenting word.

The morning leads through Sibbortswold -

With topiary curious to behold

By the Oak Bakery wall -

Then open fields and open skies

Dry out our boots and clear our eyes

To face the pilgrims' call.

We canter over Barham Downs

But our pilgrim thoughts are drowned

By the constant roar

Of traffic at its noontide peak

And crows are seen with open beak

But we can't hear them caw.

Entering The Red Lion for lunch

We stand out like a surly bunch

Of peddlers on the make

Compared with all the well-dressed crew

Who've just popped in to meet a few

Friends for old time's sake.

The tympanum at Patrixbourne -

Survivor of  the Tudor storm -

Looks down on aged yews

Whose ancestors have stood here since

The Romans came, or Saxon Prince

Stood one among the few.

And so to Canterbury we came

A little tired but all the same

Ready for a cream tea

Then in the silence of the Quire

Give thanks for friendship and the fire

Which burns in you and me.

And were there Larks upon our way?

I saw none, but it's true to say

That sometimes far above

I sensed a call from out the sky,

The rapture of a simple cry

Of undemanding love.

Brian Hick February 2011

©copyright Sally Hick 20.2.23