Dear Ipswich, How are tricks?
All seasons look good on you. I have the impression that the wind will always push me towards Christchurch Mansion. Where the story is as beautiful as the Park’s vast carpet of greenery. Moreover, the grass will never be greener elsewhere. There is also the reflection of your landscape that is emerging near the port. The rattling of beers that mix with the English music of adjacent pubs. However, I will miss nothing more, when we are back in France, than your sky. He disguises himself in grey and then in a picturesque blue. Your sky, the one that coexists with the tip of all the churches in the area.
The world is swarming in your center but it’s not unpleasant when the locals improvise themselves as singers.
I now understand Constable for drawing your portrait. You are authentic, Ipswich. I still see in one of your neighborhoods, the name of the one that Suffolk hit. You are unforgettable like the smiles of your inhabitants. You have the ambiguity of the modern and the past.
When the rain falls in France, I would always imagine, with a touch of nostalgia, the effect that the drops had on the North Sea, on your cobblestones.
