As Roses Bloom
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As roses bloom, the garden's guietly kept
in shady tree-lined crescents neatly swept.
On village greens the past playfully prances
Morris Men jangle in comic pagan dances.
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Idyllic images of Englishness invoke
patriotic nostalgia reality can't revoke.
A nation of shopkeepers with outstretched hand,
in parks, picture perfect people listen to the band.
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This England, is the one that has no poor
that is, forever, lovely and honourable to die for.
A land where kindness flows like milk and honey
and growth is never blighted by lack of money.
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Uniformly white cricket teams dream of tea
whilst the world around them is sunk in apathy.
This sceptred isle, invaded by greed and pain,
still the roses bloom, only to wither and die again.
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