The big booted club foot
Gave his gait a sort of sway
As he moved around the village
Every single working day,
The day's mail carried in
His official canvas sack
Resting in his byke carrier
Or carried slung across his back.
Bernard the village postie,
A part of the village scene
Living in his little wooden hut
On a little patch of green
At the top of Pratt's Lane,
Just along from Mill Row,
Who gave an essential service
Reliable but steady and slow.
It took a whole working day
To cover the village bounds
On bicycle and on foot
One of the larger postal rounds.
It's delivered by van these days,
The village Post Office gone,
No more bicycling Bernards
As the pace of life has moved on.
Where Bernard's little hut once stood,
Near where our orchard used to be,
They've grubbed up all the grass
Removed every single fruit tree.
It's covered in asphalt and concrete
Because people have to live somewhere
So a pleasant little estate
Rest quite inconspicuously there.
Life is so frenzied these days
There's no longer any place
For a bicycling village postie
Working at his own steady pace,
A more leisurely way of life
That sadly couldn't last
It's all internet, downloads, and e mail,
Letters almost being things of the past.
Bernard lives in my memories
From his curious hobbling walk
To his ready open smile
And his willingness to talk.
When I think of him today
Its with affection I reflect
How he treated us with dignity
And showed us children respect.