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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