He remembered when there were no cars
And when the cherry handle of his hoe,
Five feet long, was smoothly new
Fifty years gone
In those days when he would climb
To hill-top field to sit leaning against
The Great Oak while Summer's clouds made shade
Ten miles distant on the high curving hill above the cold cottage
Which bore his birth:

Then, it was good to lie beyond the half-hour
Allotted to eat, to rest, as that day when cider-induced sleep
Kept him restful in leaf-shade warmth until annoying flies
Woke him.
But there was no one, for miles - no boss to scowl - and he was free to stretch
To return to wear away the cherry handle of his hoe
While larks rose as larks rose, singing high
In the heat of Summer.
 

But now, breathless, he stoops, lee-hill wind-sheltered
To lean against the fence and view
This valley of his birth.

There, the farm, smoke from two chimneys rising,
Where each early morning he arrived for work,
Walking the short lane miles from home
Where his mother, then sister, kept house
And cooked his tea, and where he slept, awakened,
Set off from,  returned to, every day of every year
Five decades past.

There, three hill-folds and two lanes to the left
And older than his great-great-great grandfather's settling family
That warm, welcoming Inn which for fifty years has seen him
Evenings after work.
 

There was a barmaid, once, he briefly courted
But May came, bringing new blood to the town beyond
And she left to leave him walking, sleeping, for two days
By Great Oak while the contents of three flaggons lasted.
He went there, once, twice, to that town.
 

But now, cold, wind-dried, he calmly views the valley
Of his youth, his life:
There, the memories
When few cars came.
But now, now town-ways spread, growing as houses grow in the distant village
To the right
Bringing as cars bring a changing to this life.
 

And there are only dark clouds, and the cold rain of damp Winter
To cover the quiet remembered Sun of youth.
 
 
 

DW Myatt