I was born in Essex,

But I never really lived there.

In truth, nobody does.

The county, like its cricket grounds,

Gets up each day and does the rounds.

 

On one hand, there’s Basildon:

‘A Taxi Town’.

On the other, Kelvedon Hatch,

Where next door’s son or daughter

Is ‘something of a catch’.

 

Misplaced commuters, left to roam,

Walk streets near Hornchurch Aerodrome,

And in the fens, branch railway lines

Sport rusty out-of-order signs.

Elsewhere there are the rabbit shoots,

Gentle mill ponds packed full of coots,

And villages of inbred locals

Who take turns at Elvis vocals.

 

Not to mention somewhere-on-sea,

Where scary types go on a spree.

 

From The Shape of the Trees (Written Early 2020)