When the country came to town
and hordes of tweed
invaded the empty weekend city
an African stared in disbelief
at the jolly souls.
A smiling white mass
choking Westminster.

But my heart was gripped
seeing a dinosaur
dying in a swamp.

My heart ached, for
Millie-Molly-Mandy might be there
tottering along, old now,
not the girl from England
I read about,
lisping under the fern tree,
the moist muzzle of the cow
nuzzling at my shoulder.

Afterwards, I walked up the Hampstead Road,
and saw people from
Somalia, Croatia, and Rwanda,
learning English from glowing white squares
high in the tower blocks.

I felt torn, my ancestral English blood
was calling, you are Country
Come back with us, Country Girl.

Astride my urban street
in bewitching beauty
my night-time friend the fox
pauses, as do I.
We are statues carved in lamplight.
In the silence he tells me
Be calm, be cheerful, it is all right
for London Town
is our countryside now.

I wanted Elvis in a Hawaiian shirt
and sun-spangled guitars
to see yachts
that cut through the swell
with the knife-edged
thrust of money.

But all I had was French Bay
with its sewage and mangrove ripples
I wore plastic sandals wading
for shattered bottles lay unseen.

The man with the brown lips
would buy you an ice-cream
to look up your dress.
Ha ha pervert, you should know
the shop is always closed.

Sandy sandwiches, nothing to drink
shivering in the late summer sun.
All I wanted was
a tiny P-class yacht
to dream on,
and forget
fading French Bay.