The Waverly Inn

Whitefield, suspended and frozen in time, A relic of the past, verdant lush green, Far, not yet still from urban glare and grime, Nestled in rich lore this hamlet and inn. Not ere long did it live in old-world charm, Alluring, what with rare mystique beauty, Protestant mores— sheltered from urban harm— And from a bustling big bro city, Its neo Gothic church— century old, Trellis wooden cottages blending well Rich history under its ample fold, Rosewoods, English crockery, dunk old smell! But vanished has today the olden charm, Modernity has taken up its stead, Gone has the greenery, every lush farm, Near by ashram has amused the old maid. Waverly Inn amidst ruins still stands Trying hard muffled memories to cling, To make believe world preserved by old hands, The tale of its romantic love to sing, A stone relic sings, chirps like a sparrow, Of portly man plumbed in Brit History, And a World War hero of victory, His name engraved1—heart and Cupid's arrow! ______________________________________________________ 1. The initials read WSC and the lady he romanced with was the inn-keeper's daughter, an Anglo-Indian. Urbanisation not only kills greenery, but also old charm and often a bit of history. ______________________________________________________ Relics from far | 01.08.12 | Topic: remembering, past