Many times I’ve walked the Grind,
In search of beauty yet to find;
From Newnham down to Byron’s Pool,
Perchance to catch a swimming ghoul;
Whispered voices, centuries old,
To glimpse the hair of flaxen gold.
Time stretches out so sweet and young,
The music of the first bird’s song.
Rich earth and a richer dust,
Libido soon replaced by lust.
Mayflies dart, a flash of blue,
Make the river just for you;
From the meadow to the mill
The water bends to God’s own will,
Swans glide past in swift procession,
A peaceful piece of English heaven.
Apple blossom, green deckchairs,
The scent of lilac in the air;
Spreading honey, sipping tea,
One day in 1923.
Church bells peal, ring loud and true;
The many thankful to the few.
Splendid-hearted Cambridge men
Who left never to return again;
Names marked on a single cross,
In memoriam of their loss.
Age unwearied, by suns blest,
Dulce et decorum est,
Remembered with eternal glory,
Hearing pro patria mori;
Gifts so golden to be rare,
A sacrifice beyond compare.
The clock stands still at ten to three,
Evil shed, ways roaming free;
No such things exist as hours,
The thrilling smell, beloved flowers.
No present, future, or hereafter,
Gentle friends, immortal laughter.
In Grantchester they bathe by night,
Near, but always out of sight.
Unseen to the straightest eye,
Beneath the calm and starlit sky;
The moon emits its pearly beam,
Forever lovely as a dream.