Battersea

I have always known just where the river ends (Or seems to end) that I shall find my friends, Who are my friends no longer, being dead, And hear the ordinary things they said, That now seem wonderful, some evening when I take the Number Nineteen bus again To Battersea. It will, I think, be clear With stars behind the four great chimneys. Dear In the moon, young and unchanging, they Will cry me welcome in the boyish way They had before they went to France, but I, A boy no more, will greet them silently.