Cut down that timber! Bells, too many and strong,

Pouring their music through the branches bare,

From moon-white church towers down the windy air

Have pealed the centuries out with Evensong.

Remove those cottages, a huddled throng!

Too many babies have been born in there,

Too many coffins, bumping down the stair,

Carried the old their garden paths along.

I have a Vision of the Future, chum,

The workers’ flats in fields of soya beans

Tower up like silver pencils, score on score:

And Surging Millions hear the Challenge come

From microphones in communal canteens

“No Right! No Wrong! All’s perfect, evermore!”



 

***

 

More poems by John Betjeman: