Cotswold trackway...anothe painting and poem from my new book ROUND THE MULBERRY BUSH

Cotswold trackway

 

Caravan in the Cotswolds

 

We borrow for a while a share

in this ersatz country, a land divorced from cobbler

and village baker, occupied by art galleries, antique dealers,

delis, expensive horse-flesh

and four-by-fours.

 

Yellow lines prevent the perfect villages

from contamination by plebeian parking:

bus-tour visitors saunter by quaint cottages

peering through mullioned windows at welsh dressers and chintz,

envious, yet defended from envy by thoughts

of poor TV reception and the distance from Tesco’s.

 

We live, temporarily, in a tarmac refugee camp,

dashing out between showers to wash up or pee,

observing our fellow immigrants: the procession of poodles and pekes

to the euphemistically named “dog-walk”,

the arthritic grand-dads dragging water-containers,

the weekend kids on bikes and skateboards, the attempts

at barbeques despite the rain.

 

We share, for a while, the sunset across the Vale,

the dropwort dancing at dusk on the hill,

the yaffling woodpecker in the poplars,

the mewing, soaring buzzard, the endless stone walls,

and the myth of rural England.

 

 

Done