Grantchester

It's Summertime in Grantchester, with fields of green and gold,

Where students frolic on the Granta, making me feel old.

What ghosts lurk here amongst the mists, when Summer evening's done?                         

Of Brooke, Byron, Keynes and Woolf and Russell, all now gone.                                

It's Autumn time in Grantchester and Freshers come to find

That dreaming spires and nubile girls make study worth the grind.

The two mile walk from by the lock along the water's edge

Is time enough to plight a troth or some romantic pledge.

It's Winter time in Grantchester, the Orchard's damp and bare

But still they come when days are bright to drink without a care.

Next term, they say, they'll really work and show the rest they will

Get 'Firsts' without much trouble - meanwhile they take their fill

It's Spring again in Grantchester, the Granta's running strong.

The willow's green, the may is out, the air is full of song.

And still they come to Grantchester to shake off Winter's gloom

So tranquil by the water's edge compared with their dark room.

It's Summertime in Grantchester, was ever place so fair?

So English to its very roots - a place without a care.

The student's gone, the tourist's here to marvel at the sight

Of distant spires across the fields, seen in the fading light .

granchester                 click play button for streaming audio

Keith apart from writing poetry also runs  Silverhairs.co.uk     On line computer help for older people 

click here  http://www.silverhairs.co.uk