A sort of wistful sadness,

as life moves quickly on,

the village of my childhood

bit by bit almost  gone.

Physically, it's grown 

to be larger in size,

 much still the same as when

seen through my child's eyes:

once fields and meadows

where we would roam

now brick and concrete of

any time anywhere homes.
And it's full of strangers,

so very few of my friends

are still there and so

my connection ends.

First youthful encounters

at village dances,

adolescent kisses

snatched at chances.

Slipping outside

for furtive cuddles,

boys and girls in

conspirital huddles,

avoiding watchful

parental eyes,

recalled with pleasure 

as years passed by.

The village hall is now missing,

 its grounds once semi wild,

the centre of social life and

entertainment for a child.

Black and white film shows,

village drama group plays,

other communal events of 

thise near pre television days;

now its demolished,

another childhood link gone

hard to accept, but I suppose 

the village also has to move on.

So I visit our graves

In the old burial ground

and, every now and then

have a wander around.

O say hello to the ghosts

from my childhood days

then as quickly as i can

I’m off on my way.

A stranger now so

 why should I care?

But in heart and mind still 

that child growing up there.