Well, the Bishops are about to have some fun in Lambeth, or some of them are at least. At a time when a number of our esteemed primates are throwing their toys out of the pram over gay clergy, we learn that sexuality might have a neurological basis. Could it be that the only real "sin" is that which denies our God given identity? Just a thought, here's a poem I wrote some years ago in the beautiful city of York...
Two tweeded cap gentlemen,
wax jacketed in the damp January air,
emerge from Old Shag cloud,
breathing Old Peculiar sweetness.
They take a stroll down the cobbled road,
authentically Disneyed for coach trips of old timers,
feasting on the taste of Olde England,
cream tea in bent beamed tea shoppes.
wax jacketed in the damp January air,
emerge from Old Shag cloud,
breathing Old Peculiar sweetness.
They take a stroll down the cobbled road,
authentically Disneyed for coach trips of old timers,
feasting on the taste of Olde England,
cream tea in bent beamed tea shoppes.
Olde bookshop window,
promising Punch and Picture Post,
Vera Lynn nestling Bluebirds
as she sung over the white cliffs of Dover
Through the door ,
past the fraying tomes of yesterdays
that always seem to end in five minutes
towards the magazine rack.
They select one ,
pink and glossy,
a kiss on the cheek,
and our two tweeded cap gentlemen
hold hands,
step out, together
promising Punch and Picture Post,
Vera Lynn nestling Bluebirds
as she sung over the white cliffs of Dover
Through the door ,
past the fraying tomes of yesterdays
that always seem to end in five minutes
towards the magazine rack.
They select one ,
pink and glossy,
a kiss on the cheek,
and our two tweeded cap gentlemen
hold hands,
step out, together
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