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Fay Davies

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The Lost Village

There were cottages here.
Grey stones piled in disarray.
Walls, lichen covered, emerged
Out of bramble bushes, intermingled
With uncut rambling roses.

A wilderness of untended gardens
Spread into a forgotten forest
Of fruit trees, apples, pears and plums.
Unpainted fences struggled for survival
Against the prevailing winds.

Chimney-pots, sharp-angled into earth,
Played host to insects and their young,
And an outside closet leaned
Towards one side, the once-scrubbed seat
A mess of bird droppings and mould.

The fields beyond, were outspread
With a dazzle of sun-glow buttercups,
With here and there, a fading poppy red.
Hedgerows full of sweet Honeysuckle
Embalmed the warm summer air.

Yet silence reigned all day long,
Nothing stirred the distant trees.
The whole area waited and undisturbed.
Evening sent shadows across
The flowered fields and lanes.

Then suddenly, gunfire rattled, spreading
Over and across the flowered land
Mortar bombs whistled death and
Armoured tanks invaded the buttercups
Bowing their yellow heads into the ground

In the village down the road,
Beyond the red marked boundary lines
Someone remembers living there.
Now it is only safe to visit
When the red flag isn’t flying.


 

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