Oh Wasn't it naughty of Smudges? Oh, Mummy, I'm sick with disgust. She threww me in front of the judges, And my silly old collar-bone's bust.

What the Londoner sees in his mind's eye is that cluster of towers and pinnacles seen from Pentonville Hill and outlined against a foggy sunset, and the great arc of Barlow's train shed gaping to devour incoming engines, and the sudden burst of exuberant Gothic of the hotel seen from gloomy Judd Street.

I am still reeling with delight at the soaring majesty of Norfolk.

Too many people in the modern world view poetry as a luxury, not a necessity like petrol. But to me it's the oil of life.

Hymn tunes are the nearest we've got to English folk music.

Now if the harvest is over, And the world cold, Give me the bonus of laughter, As I lose hold.

Topography is one of my chief themes in my poetry, about the country, the suburbs and the seaside. Then there comes love... and increasingly; the fear of death.