Sleepy by the Hill

The village has no shop  
the nearest is three miles  
one hears no children playing  
except of course at Christmas,  
toys and trees and Santa,  
gone by Boxing Day,  
Sleepy-by-the Hill.  
 
Shut away ,they languish  
Retired and here to die,  
in time........ there is no hurry  
The houses line the street  
like tomb-stones in the park.  
Once there was a black-smith  
Bashing metal gates  
No noise today,  
cleaning ladies come from miles away,  
not in the bus, but cars.  
 
Next year I'll call again,  
a pretty place, have tea and talk  
watch the kestrel over-head  
hear the lawns being cut  
stay awhile and ponder  
.......................  
Was my world at one time,  
the wilderness calls me  
yet I must back to town.  
Post-Office, shops and buses,  
coffee, friends and strangers,  
wild flowers to follow me.  
Chilean flutes in the square  
Turban, Burka from lands afar,  
world's checker-board.  
Carved pieces,spices in the air  
babel voices,seek understanding.