No trees on Chancery Lane
Just lawyers and secretaries bustling here and there
In and out of buildings
Centuries older than you and me.
The heaviness of ancientness
Descends on me as I file
In an office dimly lit with law and order
Until the hour after noon
My lunchtime comes.
I take my feet away
From oppressive holy rooms
And walk the narrow lane, fifteen yards or fifty
Whereby I find the ancient hideaway
Through stone archway in the wall
A secret garden
Field of dreams
The lawyers’ enclave “Lincoln’s Inn”
With trees a’tumbling o’er a lawn,
Green grass and flowers of every hue.
I sit with lushness all around and eat my lunch
Warmed by summer’s sunshine,
Blessed by those of bygone times -
A sandwich all more luscious
In surroundings so complete;
Cheese, salad, apple,
Nourishing body and soul
This fairy-tale hour in London’s hub
Is more than food can do.