Miss Corfield, Miss Corfield, we’re destined as one

You a wood nymph, I a woodworkers son.

We both vibrate airwaves of Radio 4

You live and vivacious! I dead as a door.

 

With nasal enhancement and vamp-throated quirk

You take mundane news and you set it to work

Stirring old men, from straw hat to galoshes

Till backward and forth, my sawdust-blood sloshes.

 

From six in the morning till midnight’s bold boom

You bounce round the walls of my Betjeman tomb

Intoning with wantonly womanly wiles

Such titbits as: Syria, and baby George smiles!

 

Corrie – dear Corrie (I know you won’t mind)

A closeness like ours few are destined to find.

Stonemason are wont to chip: “Sleeping for ever.”

Thus, the few hours you sleep: we are sleeping together!

 

It’s our little secret; such secrets are fun.

When love is brand new the entwined tell no one.

Your words, where my ear used to be, mine alone;

No room in my rib-cage for flibberty Joan!

 

I’ll wait for you Corrie till time-lines combine

We’ll be ‘happy-ending’ forever sublime.

My stone angels wait to sing nuptial chorus

Using words only found in our private Thesaurus.

 

The air-waves are silent; we’re exchanging non-stop.

Bunked: I underneath and Corrie on top.

My rhyming is now but solely with her

Dear darling Corrie, you never demur!