Now If The Harvest Is Over, And

Topography Is One Of My Chief Themes In My Poetry, About The Country, The Suburbs And The Seaside. Then There Comes Love... And Increasingly; The Fear Of Death.

What The Londoner Sees In His Mind's Eye Is That Cluster Of Towers And Pinnacles Seen From Pentonville Hill And Outlined Against A Foggy Sunset, And The Great Arc Of Barlow's Train Shed Gaping To Devour Incoming Engines, And The Sudden Burst Of Exuberant Gothic Of The Hotel Seen From Gloomy Judd Street.

A Whispering And Watery Norfolk Sound Telling Of All The Moonlit Reeds Around.

And Behind Their Frail Partitions Business Women Lie And Soak, Seeing Through The Draughty Skylight Flying Clouds And Railway Smoke. Rest You There, Poor Unbelov'd Ones, Lap Your Loneliness In Heat, All Too Soon The Tiny Breakfast, Trolley-bus And Windy Street!

History Must Not Be Written With Bias, And Both Sides Must Be Given, Even If There Is Only One Side.