Middle England

Happy Hour and Early Doors    
beneath the oak tree beams    
noise and clatter    
laughter chatter,    
Barnwell Bitter, golden    
flowing faster than the Nene.    
Heavy blouses, open shirts    
Monday night at seven.    
Candles stuck in bottles    
contents long since gone,    
one said 1971, yellow label    
boasting in the hearth    
no fire tonight . . . .    
Indian summer fading    
through the narrow windows.    
The menu long, exotic,but    
they ran out of stew and dumplings!  
I had the last, Alan had a steak.    
   
It was ever so,harvest in    
plough and harrow shiny    
summer rust worn bright again,    
wheat and straw, potato still to lift.    
Hay in plastic wraps stacked high    
stables now a country home    
where Jessop once munched hay.    
Old England passing by.    
Gone the days when Constable    
painted leaking thatch    
hollyhocks, hens and bare-foot children    
washing on the hedge to dry.    
Sweet nostalgia drinking here,    
4x4s left in the yard    
walking home Barnwell Bitter up to here!    
Waking sparrows and the blackbird    
trying to sleep,chill in the air    
Open shirts now buttoned-up    
heavy blouses too.