Blossom in a Sussex Village

Come with me willingly, let’s visit Blossom in Willingdon;
                  we’ll stub out our Weights and suck in sweet East Sussex air
as we climb from the grime of our railway carriage at Polegate
                  then take a Ford taxi, whose cost we shall probably share;
a mere ninety minutes from busy Victoria station
                  we are deep in the Downs – and all for a quite modest fare.
 
Calling us urgently, church of St Mary the Virgin
                  your incense of centuries renders us dizzy and faint:
yet even more thrillingly, we’ve spotted Blossom in Willingdon:
                  with her long luscious lashes and sweet oval face of a saint
and fine slender figure and excellent legs in silk stockings.
                  She has paused by the pond in a pose that Rossetti might paint.
 
The pub is convivial: roughly a shilling in Willingdon
                  buys a pint of strong ale and a helping of good bread and cheese.
The saloon bar is filling, the landlord is beaming a welcome;
                  outside in the high street are shopkeepers eager to please.
Blossom strides by them all (did I mention silk stockings already?)
                  but the pout of her sensuous mouth says she’s not well at ease.
 
She’s discovering London is chillingly distant from Willingdon –
                  not in miles or in minutes but units of ennui instead;
it’s the distance to shows and new clothes, to gossip and galleries
                  and more varied company, not just the well-bred and dead.
Blossom’s afternoon options: she can drive to the Downs or the sea-side;
                  she can envy the hawks or the gulls as they wheel overhead.
 

Michael Bartholomew-Biggs

in collection Fred & Blossom, 2013, Shoestring Press,
ISBN 978-1-9073567-5-9