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?