A Trip to the British Isles

For eleven days it was cobblestones, castles, and cathedrals.

It was Yorkshire Pudding, Haggis, Hake and Bream, warm ale,

hot tea, leg-of-lamb, and Sticky Pudding.

For eleven days it was tiny hotel rooms with

Twin beds scrunched together, contraption faucets,

And noiseless fast-flushing toilets.

For eleven days it was green rolling countryside seen

From narrow winding roads, black-faced grazing sheep,

Billowing clouds, and wild river waters.

We walked the towns: Edinburgh, York, Chester,

Llangollen, Stratford-on-Avon, Oxford, and London –

Unnamed streets with intersections in every direction.

Edinburgh and Bamburgh Castles, guardians of old,

Gleaming swords, armor, cannons, artifacts,

Home to Kings and Queens, soldiers, and pirates.

We paused speechless at Shakespeare’s grave,

Saw his childhood home and sat is his schoolhouse

to write on parchment with feather pen and ink.

Then there was the University, Trinity College,

History and knowledge exuding from the weathered stone,

The perfect filming for Harry Potter.

And finally London, the Tower with the Crown Jewels,

Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Houses of Parliament,

The Thames, and the Royal Buckingham Palace.

All this dream-like wonder and adventure

Contrasting with the reality of pickets on every corner

Low-paid doctors, nurses, postal workers, barristers on strike

While the world marvels at Prince Harry’s Spare

Exposing royal secrets, lies, the wayward press

In this winter of discontent, three million copies sold.

And millions of pounds to be spent

On the crowning of a powerless king.