“Fight to uphold it, it’s the status quo!’

When I taught, boys defended the career

they’d planned themselves in the armed forces so.

We’re here because we’re here because we’re here.”

Newspaper letter, 1982.

Read over someone’s shoulder, to my shame,

Stoke Newington, the 73 bus queue.

And then I recognised the writer’s name.

Thought of his teaching, and how he hauled one

boy by the hair or ear out from his place,

asked him I forget what. We all looked on.

Each answer got a punch in the boy’s face.

Perhaps two teachers shared the name. I’ll not

fuss joining dot to thirteen-year-off dot.

Those towers twenty miles away — you claim

as I see them they must have seen your flame.

Right. But these towers fifty miles away.

You don’t need them.  You had your glory day

when the message was flared across the Trent

in the great Armada alert they sent

nationwide. More than I’ve done, ever. That

should do you. Embroidered, it’s all tat.

You’re an earthwork to hold fires on your top.

No, not a volcano either.  Stop. 

The signs advise entry by the west door 

that’s round the campanile to its north.

We walk the church’s length in West Street, for 

the city’s grid names keep their ancient worth.

My bearings flip cathedrals, see them lie

anti-parallel to most parish churches.

Not here. The tower stands into the sky

per childhood graveyards. How soon done the search is!

Evensong, then the conflict-ridden timeline:

the spire’s collapse in 1861

and the abuses later come to light.

We walk the city walls. Scott’s spire design,

louvreless windows open to the sun

and space. They’re still an unexpected sight.

The stately-home guide said the take technique

brought to a fine art by the late Queen Mary –

praise it till it’s a gift – was deemed such cheek

the Firm warned hosts of this through an equerry.

And did they warn Queen Mary? Truth to power?

Power’s excuse is Weak, hide your temptations!

I cannot help myself as I devour.

It is my gift to eat the wealth of nations. 

1916-1917: Ivor Gurney made a song of F.W. Harvey’s ‘In Flanders’.

From Flanders’ huge low prison Will

looked back to years above the war,

homesick for high, and blue, and hill,

kings' cloudlands of the time before.

1913-1914: the Gurney Library sheltered C.S. Lewis from Malvern College.

Malvern Hills healed Jack's England pain;

but a fagged, flogged newbie (the day

stung forty years), again, again,

he begged father take him away.