An English Village
A Sunday: given a clarity by 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.
Posted Apr 20, 2022, 9:33 AM UTC
Wow, what a beautiful poem. I personally think this is masterfully written and flows incredibly. The way you pictured An English Village was perfect. There's so many parts of this poem I love. "Of borrowed Roman roads, appears the village" and "The streets are haunted by the ghost of heritage" are my two favourite lines. I honestly can't think of much to critique on this poem. Maybe a better title but other that it is great. Thank you for this read :)
Thank you for taking the time to read and your very generous comments!