Remember the pilgrim, open-toed,
with his light step and heart heavy with hope
along these roads the Romans laid,
under the self-same stars.

Tales tumble through the years,
of Vikings, Danes, Bishops and Kings,
sisters, brothers, lovers in arms…

Lyres, harps, and choral voices usher the Stour
on its willowy way, past the whispering backs of houses,
their secret gardens.
There are minstrels too, and dancing girls
like a rush of bluebells.

Where once carts rumbled over cobble stones,
bicycle wheels turn, and cars roll;
children gather at the bus station
while the city sings in stone and glass,
in cafes and theatres, on grass;
sings with the guy on his guitar, dog by his side, hat at his feet
the child skipping, the baby giggling – her small fist
teaching upwards to grasp this precious air,
this moment in time, Canterbury.


This poem is on display at the Westgate Gardens Underpass in Canterbury

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