This is a village that has exploded into its own quietness.
Even the village stores are gone
And the old map dead ends in houses that
The footpath has diverted around.
The Private signs, and no parking signs
And the old metal barns
Droop in anticipation.
The church bell rings,
The graveyard quiet
Crows and pheasants
And darting birds sing nets of resolute silence.
A padlocked portable loo
At the churchyard gate.
For sale signs,
And the bustle of renovation.
Builders, painters, vans;
This is a village that has exploded into its own quiet.
Even the village stores are gone.