John Betjeman


In a house like that
    Your Uncle Dick was born;
Satchel on back he walked to Whitgift
    Every weekday morn.

Boys together in Coulsdon woodlands,
    Bramble-berried and steep,
He and his pals would look for spadgers
    Hidden deep.

The laurels are speckled in Marchmont Avenue
    Just as they were before,
But the steps are dusty that still lead up to
    Your Uncle Dick’s front door.

Pear and apple in Croydon gardens
    Bud and blossom and fall,
But your Uncle Dick has left his Croydon
    Once for all.