Old Town Blue

Old Town Blue

Skinny old men shuffle,

Wishbones rattle

Drummers lose the beat

Before the chorus

Women wear black shawls

Over faded veils of skin

To cover the loss of something

Worth forgetting

In the shifting of shapes

I see the ghost of a chance

For something better

In the lie of the land

The smooth roll of meadow

Where the wildflowers grow

A wilderness of

Colourful profusion

With no inclination

To choose a side

The sun hits the earth evenly

Where the badgers hide

And another dawn

Fades into morning.

So much bustle for so little return

Where an edge of sky meets

The world-weary

With a dewy kiss.

The village is drab

In comparison

Grey square granite

Sunbaked roofs with a hint

Of a sag

Holding a collective breath

The best of their summers

Long gone.

A May Queen’s face

A picture of innocence

Even after a roll in the hay

With the farmer’s son

The old men tell stories

Sing for their supper

Dance the soft shoe

For a few coppers

On spit and sawdust

Before slipping into the shadows

To drink in peace.

Lewd louts from the new town

Carousing ‘til dawn

Stink the whole place out

With a new-monied stench

The price of a failure

To arrive

As anything special.

Even the old men

Learned how to survive

Long enough to thrive,

Become a repository

A sorrow full of stories,

Curators of a history

Nobody wants to remember

Until they forget.

It is a gift

Of the old towns,

To amuse

And remind the living

Of what they have to lose

When they pretend

Nothing really matters.