They called me a Communist
When only just a teen
Nothing much has changed in
Those Sixty years in between.
My village once had fourteen farms
Now it’s just got one or two
Those employed in the village
Are now very far and few.
It’s commuter land these days
Almost deserted on weekdays
An almost soulless place
With modern village ways.
There was Social Housing then
Now it’s mainly owner occupied
Very few common folk there
Now it’s well and truly gentrified.
The old Falcon Inn once well used
As village meet and social club
Has been renovated and become
A stylish seldom open Gastro Pub.
My dad’s old cottage still stands
Only because it’s been listed
Next door has been knocked through
As though it had never existed.
Two hundred years the family home
Now any trace of us long gone
It’s what these days they call progress
As life ambles and stumbles on.
A place of many required lessons
Which I never did manage to learn.
Only old family graves there now
So I seldom bother to return.
They called me a Communist
Because I wouldn’t doff my cap
To the Johnny-cum-lately Squire
Touring the village by pony and trap.
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