ramblings and things

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Wimbledon Saturday

half sort of drowsing to the click click clicks
of the Morris dancers striking with their sticks
their little bells providing a jingling counter beat
moving and shaking to the rhythm of their feet
sweet tart strawberries in a bowl in my hand
local produce picked today from our local land
children playing on the village green
with eyes closed heard but not seen
a world far away from trouble and strife
an essential part of our old village life
Wimbledon Saturday as it always used to be
our annual carnival broken by afternoon tea
open my eyes from wherever I've been
to focus on a now very different scene
the village green now just a token square
surrounded by housing sprung up there
and the young man that was me long gone
as progress for progress grinds inexorably on
no more pints of mild served in the public bar
they don't even know now what pints are
half litres of lager cold pale and tasting thin
sparkling with the gas that's been forced in
hardly a trace of that village of my birth
so I close my eyes and for what it's worth
listen in my mind to the click click clicks
of past Morris dancers striking their sticks
and the jingling of the bells counter beat
moving and shakin by the rhythm of feet

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Wimbledon Saturday