Woking

In the leafy shires of Surrey lies a town called Woking,
Where the River Wey still winds and the railway winds beside.
Victorian brick and modern glass sit side by side in harmony,
And the scent of fresh‑baked scones drifts from the market’s friendly stall.

The historic Shah Jahan Mosque—Britain’s first—stands proud and tall,
Its minaret a quiet prayer against the English sky.
Nearby, the Basingstoke Canal whispers of barges long gone,
While cyclists glide along the towpath, their laughter light and free.

At dusk, the lights of the Peacocks Centre glow like amber stars,
And families gather in Jubilee Square, sharing fish and chips,
Their battered cod a golden hug, the mushy peas a verdant sigh.
Children chase pigeons beneath the clock tower’s steady chime,

While the famous H. G. Wells once walked these very streets,
Dreaming of time machines and worlds beyond our own.
His spirit lingers in the library’s hushed aisles,
Where pages turn like soft footsteps on a rainy afternoon.

Woking, you blend the old with the new, the quiet with the bright,
A tapestry woven of commuters, scholars, and neighbours true,
In every lane and park, in every friendly nod,
You hold a steady, humble charm—deeply British, wonderfully odd.