Crooked cottages inclined to the wind
showing the signs of senile distemper,
grumble about cracked panes and leaky guttering
which has little consequence
when the sun is shining,
but there’s a long hard winter ahead.
Paint peels from window frames, flakes away,
exposes wood de-grained and shivering.
Raw like the North winds that rattles the glass,
sneaks under doors, and moans down the chimneys.
Dry docked by bell vines the disused mill
stands. Shadow silent, pond moody
as moonlit antiquity. Sails point
to the four winds but cling to the past
desperately holding a monochrome memory.
Tooth-loose cogs tell tall pirate tales
of stones that once rolled with the grind
now run aground all covered in moss,
and the wind songs like phantom calls
of shipwrecked clouds
hopelessly lost.
Old school gates cough with rust,
empty classrooms that echo
with times table mantras,
and in the grave silent playground
the game is all up for hopscotch, tag
and what’s the time Mr Wolf?
The ABC of it all,
as another brick falls from the wall,
is the D that stands
for demolition.
The heart of the village fell to disease
when the brewery called time on the White Hart Inn.
Hand pumps left standing like a wicket
in the rain, the innkeeper’s stumped
run out for a duck. Run out of his luck.
So too for the Post Office, and the little shop
that sold bread flavoured with gossip,
their fate was decided in five star restaurants
with brown envelopes
and hush hush slushy funds; cigars all round
in the local council planning office.
From the Norman church, reedy refrains,
aisles awash with an organ; off-key.
W.I. tea, home-baked cakes,
scones with home-made marmalade.
Twin set ladies selling jam
to raise funds and rebuild Jerusalem,
but instead of an anthem
all they hear now is a Cassio
sounding ring tone requiem.
