In the licorice fields at Pontefract
My love and I did meet
And many a burdened licorice bush
Was blooming round our feet;
Red hair she had and golden skin,
Her sulky lips were shaped for sin,
Her sturdy legs were flannel-slack'd
The strongest legs in Pontefract.
The light and dangling licorice flowers
Gave off the sweetest smells;
From various black Victorian towers
The Sunday evening bells
Came pealing over dales and hills
And tanneries and silent mills
And lowly streets where country stops
And little shuttered corner shops.
She cast her blazing eyes on me
And plucked a licorice leaf;
I was her captive slave and she
My red-haired robber chief.
Oh love! for love I could not speak,
It left me winded, wilting, weak,
And held in brown arms strong and bare
And wound with flaming ropes of hair.
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
-
From guest JD (contact)
You should not read any of betjemans poetry literally, many critics have argued that the flowers are representative of the female anatomy! -
Licorice Fields
From guest John Phillips (contact)
Old poets never die. The young ones wish they would. -
"dangling licorice flowers"?
From guest gerry firth (contact)
Did the grat amn ever see licorice flowers? They hardly dangle. More like lupins.
Adding your comment:
