The changing village

    
A dream-land, for me    
a dream of forty years    
walking with the children    
through oolite villages,    
thatching,shops, creamy stones,    
horse droppings and careless cow.    
      
Now, from long years,    
a pub with polished floors.    
no dogs, no boots,    
fifteen quid a steak,    
ghosts of John and Arthur,      
along the twisting road    
unchanged as when we drove      
the little car we could not afford,    
to shops ten miles away.    
      
Unhurried  conversations,      
as suns went down,    
pints after lights-out,      
naughty boys asleep.    
The house-master teaching    
how to squeeze a tooth-paste tube,    
so many ways....laughter all the way!    
      
Gardens then filled with vegetables.    
soft fruits, apples and potato      
that which grew was to be eaten,    
now with lawns and parasols,    
Mercedes at  the gates.    
Such a pretty place it was    
now none walk their children,    
the dog tied on the fence.    
   
Bring your paints and camera    
frame the pictures if you will,    
I'll go home pictures in my mind    
developed deep,black and white    
in the dark-room of my memory.    
.