The Village
The village once had a tiny railway station at one end
and a little pub where old men would drink.
No food was served, no canned lager
only good old fashioned ale.
Buses came each hour, never sooner
and the postman would pop by for a cup of tea.
I'd run errands for old ladies
and bring them flowers I'd picked from the fields.
Nowadays there are high rise flats replacing cottages,
a pub on every corner and supermarkets.
Boys walk round in gangs and hoods
and old ladies stay inside.
They shiver by cold radiators, too afraid of bills,
that used to be log fires and no one pops by.
They say they're too busy with their own lives,
their own problems.
Kids wreck shop fronts for kicks and swag
while trains that were clean and tidy
are vandalized, mindlessly, maliciously
and nobody dare intervene.
Changes, not for better or the richer,
some for poorer and most for the worse.
The old in work on crutches
the young, in dole queues.
Who knows what tomorrow may bring,
what new beginnings may come.
Or will it all turn sour again
and again and again?
poem by Ruth Walters
Added by Poetry Lover
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