The Village
by Howard Richards
Old time worn village snuggles in the valley,
Houses red brick and honey limestone
Wakes slowly from sleep,
As mist rises off the brook
The summer’s sun not yet above the hill
An early walker out in morning air
Pacing upwards fast
Towards the big house
In places sheep crop pasture in vista-avenue
Lined with fragrant limes and tall slick beeches
Where threads of vapour drift
From warmed undergrowth
Village dwellings catch the first rays of sun
Reflecting their intense golden colour
And from its notched tower
The church clock strikes seven
Stirrings of traffic drive fast through the streets
Commuters and school runs with uncaring mums
By nine all is quiet
Save for twittering
Grey-black Jackdaws, shiny purple sheened rooks
Squawk and kaah in tall dark leafy maples
Tending their coarse nests
And hungry juveniles
High above now, in the bright blue sky, the sun
Casts ever shortening muted shadows
Where sheep lie in scant shade
Below the meadow tree
People enter the Red Lion and Rose and Crown
For lunch of ham and eggs and English beer
Or other choices
From the chalked up slate
Time slows as the hot afternoon progresses
Soporific, the village settles back
Harbouring its secrets
Behind closed windows
Two bells ring signifying the half hour
Mums ready for the regular school run
To fetch their noisy brats
With roaring four by fours
Shadows lengthen away from the setting sun
A fiery red glow lights up the high street
As the red orb goes down
Leaving wine streaked cloud
Evening drinks in gardens as twilight comes
With darkening sky, the street lights glimmer
Time for slumber once more
Silence falls throughout