John Betjeman

Pot Pourri from a Surrey Garden

Miles of pram in the wind and Pam in the gorse track,
    Coco-nut smell of the broom, and a packet of Weights
Press'd in the sand. The thud of a hoof on a horse-track—
           A horse-riding horse for a horse-track—
           Conifer county of Surrey approached
    Through remarkable wrought-iron gates.

Over your boundary now, I wash my face in a bird-bath,
    Then which path shall I take? that over there by the pram?
Down by the pond! or —yes, I will take the slippery third path,
       Trodden away with gym shoes,
       Beautiful fir-dry alley that leads
    To the bountiful body of Pam.

Pam, I adore you, Pam, you great big mountainous sports girl,
    Whizzing them over the net, full of the strength of five:
That old Malvernian brother, you zephyr and khaki shorts girl,
       Although he's playing for Woking,
       Can't stand up
    To your wonderful backhand drive.

See the strength of her arm, as firm and hairy as Hendren's;
    See the size of her thighs, the pout of her lips as, cross,
And full of a pent-up strength, she swipes at the rhododendrons,
       Lucky the rhododendrons,
       And flings her arrogant love-lock
    Back with a petulant toss.

Over the redolent pinewoods, in at the bathroom casement,
    One fine Saturday, Windlesham bells shall call:
Up the Butterfield aisle rich with Gothic enlacement,
       Licensed now for embracement,
       Pam and I, as the organ
    Thunders over you all.