John Betjeman Poem

I had a memory of Dorothy Perkins
At the back of my mind where the rambling rose
Climbs the forgotten terrace that borders the darkness
Where the loves that have passed and the dying thought goes.

It was there in the sixties I used to meet Ceilia
Dressed in the nylon smock, cerise and zipped
When she was free at lunchtime we had macaroons once
But where now is she? Where the jokes that we quipped?

You can go to a hundred shops that bear the name proudly
At least if the credit crunch withholds its jaws
But though I'm sure its PR still makes its point loudly
The days of my Ceilia are mine and not yours.

I had a memory of Dorothy Perkins
I pressed Ceilia's hand as she went back to work
We came closest to lovers one time in Prestatyn
But the hotel was full: now I feel such a berk.

Why did I let her go into the darkness
Why didn't I hold her and keep her with me.
My love, oh my love in her nylon so purple.
The sweet rose of England, my thoughts are with thee.


Simon BJ