In Memoriam

John Betjeman cannot read his In Memoriam. Not today
     Or ever.

So what's the use of writing another jot.
     Why, pray,
     Endeavor?

For he who could best compose one is decomposing. Rot!
     Away
     Forever.

His spirit lives in every ingle-nook where England claims the heart
     And soul.

That poet so lightly musical, so serious and straight (an art)
     And droll.

Whose lines were seen and heard in every church, in every mart.
     And knoll.

Muckby-cum-Sparrowby cum Sphinx, County Westmeath, Cheltenham;
     The set.

Henly-on-Thames, also Highgate, Bristol, Clifton, Mint-on-Lamb:
     Gazette.

Places etched forever in his poems, each one a Betje-gram.
     Je bet!

We remember chintzy cheeriohs in his brilliant combinations.
     Cheeribye.

Farewell, so long, bunghosky, too — Goodbye to all his permutations.
     Never grim.
     Never dry.

Well, it's getting time for supper and we've had our ruminations.
     This is him.
     Dry your eye.

© Edmund Conti

"In Memoriam" has previously appeared in Light Quarterly and Worm.