Once upon a time, fifty eight years ago,
I got a bus I did not normally get.
It took me down a street where I had not been
since I was a child. I passed the house –
English farmhouse-style, four-square, low roofed,
the small orchard intact – where we live now.
I noted then how out of place it seemed
in a street of petit-bourgeois villas,
Victorian and Edwardian.
I thought of Tennyson on the Isle of Wight,
after the publication of ‘The Charge…’.