TROUSERS

By Folkestone’s coastal beaches,

Where waves lap at the cliff's foot

And desperate people arrive by dinghy

Lives a poet who is selfless

And not stingy

This poet packed a package

Then boarded a northbound train

He was going to go to London

And then return again

He passes orchards and hop fields

As he rides along the rails

He speeds through lush valleys

Past wooded Wealden Hills

He Stops at Ashford station

Yet he does not disembark

It is not his destination

He must travel onward

Through tunnels deep and dark  

He must ride through concrete wasteland

Right into the capital’s entrails

And Change his mode of movement

To a metal worm running

On iron Lines of underground rails 

The tube bores under London

Like a maggot through rotten fruit

Until in the northern suburbs

Out into daylight it shoots

Here the poet and his parcel

Do both board an omnibus

And ride it until the end of its route

At its terminus

Which is Barnet hospital

Where the poet’s friend

Lies recovering in a bed

But the poet cannot visit

He must leave his parcel instead

With the door people there

Since coronavirus is rife

Pandemic is everywhere

Thus, the poet’s friend’s trousers                         

Have been carried up from the seaside

By the poet’s generous journey

By this bard's day long ride.

I commemorate his trouser mission,

I honour his selflessness,

To travel so far

To bring a friend

An end to leg nakedness