Fortheringhay

 
The village street is wide
for sheep in olden times
when wool built the church,
foundations soft, secure.
the water meadows
beside the river Nene
remain, as I remember
picnics in the summer grass
the little grey car
just not big enough
parked beside the hump-back bridge,
springing today across the river,
as we ate our sandwiches;
The stately church eternal benediction,
translucent white, dark clouds
threatening then as now.
The ghost of Mary Queen of Scots
a castle long since memory,
houses in the street
built for humble peasants ....
homes now for wealthy bankers.
Gone the village shop and blacksmith
no more gossip nor strikes the anvil.
The pub where workers took their dogs
has carpets and linen table cloths
and in the stable along the lane
tractors wait for morning light
where once horses fed on hay.

Many years have passed this way
too many to remember,
the thatch that once was yellow
has lost its shine
children on that picnic,
with children of their own,
a better car now big enough;
but the river is the same
and ever more the church;
sheep are safely grazing
water-meadows flooding in the winter,
marsh-marigolds golden in the spring.