Middlesex

Gaily into Ruislip Gardens

Runs the red electric train

With a thousand Ta’s and Pardon’s

Daintily alights Elaine;

Hurries down the concrete station

With a frown of concentration

Out into the outskirt’s edges

Where a few surviving hedges

Keep alive our lost Elysium—rural Middlesex again

Well cut Windsmoor flapping lightly

Jacqmar scarf of mauve and green

Hiding hair which, Friday nightly

Delicately drowns in Drene;

Fair Elaine the bobby-soxer

Fresh-complexioned with Innoxa

Gains the garden—father’s hobby—

Hangs her Windsmoor in the lobby

Settles down to sandwich supper and the television screen

Gentle Brent, I used to know you

Wandering Wembley-wards at will

Now what change your waters show you

In the meadowlands you fill!

Recollect the elm-trees misty

And the footpaths climbing twisty

Under cedar-shaded palings

Low laburnum-leaned-on railings

Out of Northolt on and upward to the heights of Harrow hill

Parish of enormous hayfields

Perivale stood all alone

And from Greenford scent of mayfields

Most enticingly was blown

Over market gardens tidy

Taverns for the bona fide

Cockney anglers, cockney shooters

Murray Poshes, Lupin Pooters

Long in Kensal Green and Highgate silent under soot and stone