The Village (Poetry)

A gathering around the green of thatch and mottled slate,
a cottage morning clique, an architectural tête-à-tête,
huddled in the comfort of tradition's homely fold
where membership's exclusive to the listed, quaint and old.

With its weather-mellowed brick and solid oak, half-timbered stance,
the Manor keeps a distance, draws the odd, admiring glance,
while the King's Head swings its welcome sign, the church remains aloof,
its poking spire a landmark nosing over every roof.

While tucked behind a screen of trees, new council houses sprawl,
their washing lines like bunting, but no character at all
enlivens the monotony of row on Lego row
of unsympathetic dwellings with a shanty undertow.

For there's no attempt to blend and make them easy on the eye,
by borrowing a rustic style, instead the builders try
designs that have as much appeal as blisters bursting raw
on a once-protected landscape labelled green belt, but no more.

Perhaps, with time, they'll settle as the passing years persuade
their brash, intrusive moderness to soften, merge and fade
into a rural background, and it's an odds-on cert by then
there will be a new estate that we'll all rally to condemn.