Listen to me read this poem

I remembered Pendle, strapped in, waiting to go,
the low eaves, steep slate roof, miles from the road
under Brown Clee and a smattering of snow.

Flakes floated in the kitchen as we stood
at the door holding hands, Katie, Bu and me,
the roar of the Teme undercutting a hanging wood

on the Hereford bank, windows forced by Autumn bluster,
snow cleanly carpeting flags worn by clod-hopping boots
which once thumped the stream bridge between Salop and Worcester.

At that confluence of waters where old shires met,
we hesitated, turned away in December dusk long ago,
as I gratuitously recalled in the hurtling jet

as it lifted from Heathrow...(Would I come there again?)
climbed over M4, industrial estates and fields of bright rape below,
banked so I saw the spires of Oxford, where I heard urbane

Mozart played by the Warden of Wadham in Jacobean chapel gloom
( Sir Isaiah Berlin had inflated his rubber ring ) and the glory
of evening lit the glass and tune.

Astounding in the streets outside, English beggars sit,
so young and pale, reasonably reciting woe
and only asking for "a little change." Some hopes!
That's it.
We are into clouds and climbing. Eleven hours to go.
Soon drinks and dinner in the sun, Tokyo...then Australia,
but first Siberia's page beneath us blank as Pendle's under snow.