Alfristoun
The April sky the color of lead,
The wind howled and shrieked at Beachy Head.
Far below the sea was wrinkled, grey and dead.
We drove back over the South Downs
Overt whale-back hills, drab greys and browns
Like a crusty old man who always frowns.
But then, hats off the British weather!
The sun shone, the clouds were gone altogether.
The downs looked purple like Scottish heather.
A village appeared bathed in the setting sun.
The purple down now tinged with vermilion.
It was a picture post-card village called Alfristoun.
From the village steeple the bells rang
With a soft chime, a mellifluous clang.
Under a rustic hedgerow a blackbird sang.
Before the pub a cross-legged table and chair
Were laid out for revelers who weren’t there
To drink Kentish ale in the mellow air.
Our bus went on, the village was left far behind
Many years have passed since but I always find,
When I think of England it’s Alfristoun that comes to mind.
