Euphoric in Essex

A Queen-besotted Anglophile,
I lived in Essex for a while,
a flowering county that would yield
the perfect village: Finchingfield.
An ancient graveyard breathing peace,
a village pond for ducks and geese,
three pubs where cronies meet by chance –
the Hart, The Green Man, and the Manse –
a Gothic church with Norman font:
what more could any tourist want?

There, as I drank the last brown ale
and watched across the Essex dale
a sunset like the Book of Kells,
the village ringers rang the bells.
How many years had I withstood
the truth that life, though brief, was good?
Life was the light that touched the weald
and rang the bells of Finchingfield,
bending a crescent smile on men
as “Plain Bob Major” pealed again.

The words “cheap grace” may come to mind,
but is there any other kind?

About the author

Gail White does her writing in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana. Most exotic travel adventure: taking part in a Hindu wedding in Hyderabad. Latest book: Easy Marks,…

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