Padfield Derbyshire

 
Trains once ran this way  
taking coals to cotton-mills  
from Yorkshire's black-gold plenty.  
competing counties joining hands  
to fill their pockets.......  
while fighting on the green!  
We crunched our way in rain  
dodging pool and puddle  
 always rains when we come here  
and no doubt when we're not.  
 
Peels Arms, coffee served with cream  
hot water and a cake, apple pie and cheese.  
our coats dry out, on backs of chairs  
(Jack grooming near the fire)  
Soon wet again, as every day.  
Stone built cottages modernized  and double glazed  
friendly as before when trains roared through the station.  
Dead end now, Glossop on to Manchester, every hour  
Factories, now condominiums, knee length boots  
Trams chased by BMWs, Costa, HSBC and Next  
Jets crowd the sky writing  ‘hello’ and  ‘goodbye’  
We are  a hundred-years-ago  feel the rumble of the carts  
smell wash-day soap.....carbolic, children shouting in the street  
Hoop and top and skipping rope.  
We Come here once a month drive two hours to soak again  
Fight the wind and struggle with the hill  
Through the twisting snicket narrow as a tight rope  
 
Then back to Peels Arms drink that lovely coffee,  
talk dogs with the old man who's there when we are not.  
who airs the seat each day, rarely goes to town  
waiting the world to come to him.  
There were others in the bar last week  
two families, kids and pints of beer, Sunday treat and jokes  
"Hello mum, we're in the pub why don't you come along"  
along she came, the group complete, laughter even louder  
entertained us all, the place now full ,villagers  visitors united  
all soaking wet...............It always rains on Sundays.  
We didn't want to leave but could not stay  
the old man gone.....I hope to wife and dinner.  
Standing up we put on our clothes, stiff with rain and clammy,  
said good bye and ‘see you’ on down the hill we walked  
familiar streets and gardens, allotments green with cabbage  
home-made plastic tunnels, tomato reds and peppers.  
We found the car in the station-yard ‘Jack! in the boot!’  
gave my friend the keys, motorways for her,  
narrow country-lanes for me.  
Along the mundane motorway tangling with the rest,  
Home to dry our clothes, come again on Sunday.