The Channel

Here, where England begins or ends,

On these White Cliffs of Dover,

Green-topped by fine bent grass,

Wind blown to kiss the clover.

Here, where nature's force the ice age brought,

An England edged in Kentish chalk.

Through gorse and hedge narrow paths weave,

And weary strollers pause to breathe,

Where, in nineteen hundred and nine,

A boy heard an engine blow,

Then saw the dipping plane decline,

Bearing Monsieur Bleriot.

Now, weather-beaten man on weather-beaten bench,

Casts a sour eye upon the wine sweet French,

And when the English sun,

Shines upon their coast,

This breach that lies between,

seems just a mile at most.

Though through time the bonds we foster

Often seem to break,

We're tied by silken threads that trail

In our eternal wake.