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Poetry
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| Hipswell Village Green | |
| By CliffBowes | ||||||||||||
| 22 February 2007 | ||||||||||||
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My bay window with chair overlooks the village green with its church and trees. I sometimes sit and watch the passers by, the weddings, the funerals and the kids going to school. Sad old b*****d aren't I. Do you think I should get out more? I watch from my window, absorbing the scene. A small world confined to our village green. Two joggers, mud stained, break into a trot; iPod engrossed, breathing hard at their lot. A bairn with his Dad kicks goals like a winner, His Mam stay at home to cook Sundays dinner. A string a believers to the old church wend, To pay homage and talk to their imaginary friend. Into the church like a string of black crows, They nod to a man whose sadness just grows, Holding some flowers, an appointment to keep With his wife, in the churchyard, no need to weep. She’s at rest now, no pain, no growing older I’m part of this scene, not just the beholder.
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