Summer is the cruellest time, breeding
Tourists out of the hot streets, mixing
Venom and fire, stirring
Trade routes with past fame.

The real city –
Under the bright sun of a summer afternoon –
The real city remains
And sings, careless who hears,
Singing to all.

This city – music to my soul,
Fat ragtime, blatant jazz or cool –
Has both baroque and Tudor elegance;
Most is a nineteenth century Romance.
I know that. Much of its song is faint,
And much obligingly pretentious; the real city
Remains, and sings, careless, to all.

Oh, but how many who should hear are deaf!

Heedless they walk the walls, the singing streets,
Talking of raincoats, future meals, or heat.
In decades past, what nations came to stare,
Read a guide book (sunglasses in their hair)
Chew gum, and worry at the lack of sun,
Care less about the play and what it means than
How long it has been running, and its price?
From nineties cottages avert their eyes
Or cry, “Oh, come up hee-ur – A cain’t
Ber-lieve how OLD it is – it’s Just So Quaint!”

God knows, I am not normally a patriot.

Many the times I have envied the Welsh,
Inheritors of Glyndwr and Llewelyn.
Many the times I have winced and shrunk
Because of vain and petty faults
In these, my country and my city.
But as I leave a theatre this night
I feel the June invaders in our midst;
Centuries of belligerent defence of land
Well up in me, and war is understood.
Through my clenched teeth I hiss the battle cry,
“This is our England – strangers, learn respect!”
And, from behind, a jewel-decked façade
Says, “Look at these En-glish Walls – A cain’t
Ber-lieve this great old Gateway – It’s So Quaint!”

Loud voices tell of deafness. I recoil
From the assault, hearing only war cries in my soul.