Gaily into Ruislip Gardens, runs the red electric train,
with a thousand ta's and pardon's daintily alights Elaine;
hurries down the concrete station with a frown of concentration,
out into the outskirt's edges where a few surviving hedges
keep alive our lost Elysium - rural Middlesex again.
Well cut Windsmoor flapping lightly, Jacqmar scarf of mauve and green
hiding hair which, Friday nightly, delicately drowns in Dreen;
fair Elaine the bobby-soxer, fresh-complexioned with Innoxa,
gains the garden - father's hobby - hangs her Windsmoor in the lobby,
settles down to sandwich supper and the television screen.
Gentle Brent, I used to know you wandering Wembley-wards at will,
now what change your waters show you in the meadowlands you fill!
Recollect the elm-trees misty and the footpaths climbing twisty
under cedar-shaded palings, low laburnum-leaned-on railings
out of Northolt on and upward to the heights of Harrow Hill.
Parish of enormous hayfields, Perivale stood all alone,
and from Greenford scent of May fields most enticingly was blown
over market gardens tidy, taverns for the bona fide,
Cockney singers, cockney shooters, Murray Poshes, Lupin Pooters,
long in Kensal Green and Highgate silent under soot and stone.
John Betjeman.