Village

A Sunday: given clarity by the Spring’s mellow sun.

A car, rolling through the swelling hills of England,

And cutting past the unchanging, stoic fields

That fostered modesty through worn-out, modest hands.

–

Then, raised between the narrow stretches

Of borrowed Roman roads, appears the village.

A name, melting into the list of all those before,

The home of some minor poet, who I’ve never read.

–

The streets are haunted by the ghost of heritage,

As the dwellers cup the tender flame of history;

Playing at Romantic simplicity in the “Old Post Office”,

And planting roses around the “Coach House” and “Rectory”.

–

Finally, the tired church bell rings a hollow note,

Announcing the union of sharp new faces,

And, in that second toll, I hear the solemn lament

For joined hands, that toiled this land for distant Grace.

–

The flurry of houses slows, then stops,

Where a schoolyard roars with truthful words,

And the sharp sting of childhood cuts through

The sepia tone past, misremembered and misheard.