Friday, 21 January 2022


I dream of some grey Georgian town,

Not blackened by industrial years,

But grey within its very bone.

One can perhaps dream new ideas,

But not invent false places

Built of granite stone.

The sea lies to the right of it,

But leaves few traces

Upon the old homes’ faces,

Symmetrical and open

Honest, neutral, not unkind.

And at the sight of it

I’m full of hope and know I’m back,

To somewhere real in my mind,

And wander up dead grassy track,

Bleached stalks turned pink in early dawn,

Are bending slightly in the breeze,

Where the Georgian houses stop

And Gothic villas peter out,

The residential edge, no shop,

Or pub to let it down,

No children here to shout,

No one at all about,

Except the corvids,

Assessing the suitability

Of a coppice of wind gnarled trees,

For nesting?

Calling each other, ‘Jack!’

Beside the old, dead farm

Adjoining its burned out barn,

Its roof long gone

Exposing a fragility

Of rotting beams and holed floors

Empty windows, sagging doors,

And ivy covered to the top,

Square and solid, empty charm,

Steeped in deep tranquillity.

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