Is it right to wish you

Happy Birthday,

the land in which my grandfather loved

and would speak so highly of

as he sat in his favourite armchair,

Saturday glued to the horse racing,

picking up pennies won,

here and there,

after all, and I say this with the love

of someone who has held you just

as aloft as the grey haired man

who fell asleep one day in March,

three thousand miles from home

and dreaming of air so vast,

you was there before this day