PIG, PUBS, and PEOPLE : CONCLUSION
CONCLUSION
This village how it dies to me,
No rural life that used to be.
Here for centuries they’ve stood
Those homes of thatch and stone and wood;
Demolished soon and in a while
Replaced by cubes of brick and tile,
Oh what histories they hold,
Those flagstone floors and beams so old,
Of babies born and life just started
To curtains drawn, the aged departed.
I remember as a lad
The hard time the women had.
Monday was the week’s worst starter,
Light the copper, boil the water.
Not for them the wonder powder,
Washday was a tedious rub
Unless they owned a dolly-tub.
The mangle next, perhaps a wringer,
Not electric like the spinner,
Ironing too, another fate,
Heat the iron before the grate.
Clean it was before you press
Else you’re in a sooty mess.
Scrub the floor down on the knees,
No such thing as ‘easy-squeeze’.
Meals they cooked with loving care,
Some a rabbit, some a hare,
Cooked on grates all shiny black,
Boiling pot on swinging jack.
Flavours rare so sure to please,
Whoever heard of frozen peas.
Outdoor chores were sticks and gleaning
They had no time to stand there dreaming,
Night-time came, no magic box
But lots of pairs of holey socks.
Peace came then on Sunday evening,
Candlelight and Bible reading.
The men worked long with horse and plough
Or dog and sheep and pig and cow,
No machines but manual labour
“Harder still, you’re out of favour”.
Their evenings spent on family rood
They thus provided ample food.
Nights were spent in local pub
Swilling ale and chewing plug.
They stumble home all bloated red
“Now wife my dear let’s go to bed”.
The streets are smooth and have no pump,
No water comes from village pump
And at the spot where I was born
Large new house with large new lawn.
One meets new faces every day,
I wonder just how long they’ll stay.
Cars pass by at such a pace,
This is just a commuter’s race.
The milk arrives by van and crate;
No smiling milkmaid, can at gate.
The dairy’s closed for sales of milk,
It disappears each day in bulk.
The trees have gone, the church is bare,
Only two stones standing there.
Is this the school I knew so well?
Where’s the house? Where’s the bell?
There is a blacksmith, still living;
Can he keep the anvil ringing?
Where’s the butcher? Where’s his shop?
Gone forever, they’ve removed the top.
The bakehouse now has closed down,
Bread arrives from the nearby town.
The chapel’s closed and looks deserted,
I’ve heard tell it’s been converted.
The wheelwright’s there, but now retiring,
No longer tyres that need the firing.
The sawmills stand so full of rust,
Wood’s too dear to make the dust.
There were allotments, now there are not,
Just another building plot.
And the verges once so steep
No longer grazed by cows and sheep.
Suburban lawns all neatly mown
Stretching toward the expanding town.
Mr Paul Capell
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