Village And Villagers Poem by Jim Young

The Pub
Harry the Sun

The morning bar pleads under the yoke of
Cold cigarette smoke, a shroud
On stale beer's sweet cloy.
Downed last night the boozy high spirits,
Sprawl over drink stumbled chairs and sticky tables.
Pompeii halted on the catafalque's still air, the apogee of
Bombastic repartee at stop-tap - last orders please!
No sign of life in this morning's bright light, for
In the night the moment has congealed.


The Grocers Shop
Howell the Shop

On a sanctuary seat in from the street
Sits a woman in gossip and queue.
Sunlight flows in, gossamer warm,
Caressing the repartee that's ticking lists
Fecund, drawn down from pregnant shelves.
Diamond-honed the bacon slicer sings
And rashers land like linen on a greaseproof sheet.
The peg-wire garrotes a rind round cheese,
Fast wrapped bloodless with a magician's deceit.
The cold room vault snatches shut
On a final catch, and a flitch of bacon trails
Its soul, falling in a cold mist across the floor.
Short, rotund in overall grey the shopkeeper scrawls
Illegible bills, please pay at the end of the week.
The door jerks, the bell irritates, ladies glide in and out,
The baton of gossip has passed on,
Next please shuffles forward in the queue.


The Coalman
Ivor the Coal

The coalman commensal in every home
Plods through when the coal shed's low.
Black face masked with a shiny patina
Of coal dust, soulful eyes, belied by
An axolotl smile, languid in the grime.
Bent to the load he grunts in code as
He counts the sacks off his leather
Shoulder-piece that shines brighter
Than the chalk stirrup of a mating ram.
Newspapers line the floor from door to door as
Into the green Anderson shelter they go.
Best nuggets hard for hard winter nights.
But the question begs,
Is there a man outside this cameo?


The Oil Man
Nameless

Deaf and dumb in his plain van, his grunted
Gestures séance between two worlds.
Pale, olive-skinned, with the shiny pallor
Of all men doomed to die.
With brass taps turned, into the tundish flows
Paraffin for heaters, oil for lamps, dispensed
From genie vats deep inside the van.
A heavy aroma lurks just beyond recall.
Where he comes from? Nobody knows.
Where he goes to? No one knows.


The Milkman
James the Milk

First there was the dairy, James the Milk,
All jugs and white walls, marble slabs.
Proud churns on guard outside.
Then he closed to the milk float burring along,
Bottles bickering in the crates of dawn.
But the local dairy was where the farm mud
Met its match, and fields yielded the harvest
For our breakfast table. In respect
The countryside and village leant shoulder
To shoulder, merging man to land.


The Cobbler
Nameless

Shall the last be first for this nameless gnome,
Deep in the gloom of his cobweb home?
Or is his last, the last of the few?
Sprigs tight lipped he hammers,
Fixing soles for souls. The barest nod of understanding
As your repairs are placed on his bench.
The aroma of leather and polish from shoes
Resplendent on the shelf.
Back out into the daylight, for this world
Is his, and his alone.
Tap, tap, tap...


Newsagents
Ernie's

Ernie had the sweet shop.
In the pantheon of Gods supreme.
Two ounces of these, a quarter of those,
Always fulfilled our dreams.
Sherbet fountains, liquorice, lucky bags,
Love hearts, parmaviolets, bubble gum,
Lollipops, gob stoppers - Stop! Stop!
Enough pleasure from this den.
For he also sold the Beano and the Dandy,
Beezer, Topper too.
Bastions of humour where a child
Could retreat from worlds of woe.
But Ernie he had diabetes,
Went blind as we watched,
As he fingered his watch,
To tell the time of day.
Then as children do, we blinked a bit,
Po-faced across the counter.
Then we were off clutching our comics,
Sure in their embrace.
Then one day, he was not there,
Poor Ernie had died - still never mind!
Someone else proffered our sherbet Beano,
So all's well in our sticky finger world.
The magic veil of childhood,
As thick or thin as the mood demands.
In those halcyon days a magic rare indeed.

The Empty Shop
Elijah's

Elijah's shop was a netherworld.
My mum sent me there for bread,
Once a week, I think, just to give him trade.
The windows were screened,
The inside dark with gloom,
The smooth wooden counter empty,
As was the shop, this room.
Turn back to Elijah, a friendly old man
With right hand forever flexed,
Wrist broken in the womb.
What he sells I do not know, but
On the shelf are Ali Babba urns,
Painted green with lids and numbers writ in gold.
Time here seems suspended, the shop
Backs away, fading as it goes.
I think he sold potatoes, but of this I'm sure,
He wrapped the bread in paper, his club wrist
As a tool. He did not seem to mind at all,
So I accepted that it was his lot.
He was a friendly chap - I think he had a wife.
I know he had pigs in a compound behind the shop.
The essence of Elijah's, eludes me to this day.
Dust right through my fingers, and as I turn away,
It settles on the quiet room, bedding down
For a long, long sleep.

The Ironmongers
John Shops

Shop coat light brown pencil line moustache,
Stub pencil behind his ear, John stands tall. For all
The world outside is on his shelves, so the question must
Be asked and answered with a tight lip smile, have you got...?
Away into the back of store deep his steps retreat, then
Silence! No sound crosses time - just silence.
Then, a faint footstep Doppler teases, and it approaches.
There you go, that's what you need, agreed?
And the balance of parallel universes is re-established,
For two and six the nugget is in the paper bag.
Brown bag of course, like the hessian sacks
Of corn stacked on the floor. And maple seeds and other
Mixes for the pigeon fanciers winning concoction.
The seeds spill through fingers and the colour speaks
Of sunny harvests and pigeons exploding from lofts
Like snipe in the sunshine, kingfishers skimming streams.
To stand in John Shops spoilt for choice,
It is the stuff of dreams.


The Rag and Bone Man
Con Thyer

Rag bone, rang bone... rang 'n' bone.
If you missed the words, you'll get the tone.
No longer to make glue; it was once, I'm told,
But for scrap metal to the dealer borne.
The horse plodded, gee up boy it plodded,
From times of yore, or so it seemed.
The horse nodded, and Con nodded, the cart nodded,
On and on, piled high with this and that.
Shiny reins the whole scenario was resplendent
Floating through the village slowing right down.
Red checkered neck-cloth, open shirt,
Ruddy cheeks from sun long days and
Evening pints glinting in his eye.
His Song of Songs: "anyeee old iron",
Was a javelin back in time.
Many a galvanised bucket rang to the horseshoes
As the spade scooped up the steaming splat,
The perfume of the ages was carried across the mat
To our runner beans and peas.
The village rang to all walks of life.
They coloured our life that's for sure.


The Coffin Maker
Unknown

Down a lane in a small stone building
Hiding in plain sight, worked an ancient man.
With a peaches and cream complexion
He nodded us enter in.
Backs against the stone wall we hush,
Hush watched his aged hands turn their skill.
Sawdust and shavings on the floor,
Saws and chisels above the bench,
He adds a finish to two polished coffins,
Brass handles shinning propped against the wall.
Contented in his place he skillfully constructs
The inevitable receptacle of everyone's travail
To no avail, but what a beautiful finish.

The Board Man
Fictional?

A mythical figure? A mother's fright for recalcitrants?
There was a board man in her days,
Who shepherded truants back to solitary desks.
But now a figment of maternal malevolence
Conflated with the Beagle, now who would ask for more!
The rabid concatenation of thoughts in the mind of a child.
But overarching all lesser demons was the Black Maria!
The wagon to take you in. Down into hell it sounded like,
But off to the police station in fact.
Although long gone, the fear remained.
All the fear structures of a mother's childhood,
Extracted slowly from her shadows and slotted into mine.
For unto the next generation.


Policeman
Bishop the Bobby

The local policeman was real enough.
Straight laced Bishop, strict but with a
Benevolent smile when backs were turned.
A reassuring presence in the corner of a mischief eye.
There was another policeman... Mr. Ussia!
Who was spoken of in whispers of trepidation.
A right a so and so! But conflated in my mind,
Absurdly, with Russia, and therefor rush you in.
A gyrating vortex of anxiety best treated by a flight
Across the meadows at full pelt.
Catch me if you can - naah, naah, la naah, naah!


Pentrechwyth

I have fallen in love again.
With the people and the village.
Is that an old man's construct?
Is that why these rhymes from other times,
Have such an effect on me?
For when these verses are recited,
Drawn across the years,
My love for them,
And them for me,
Will be longingly requited.
For it is they, from then,
That are in here depicted.
It is they that give life to these words,
However well they're crafted.
Their entreating eyes stare back at me,
Held safe within these pages.
I have given them life again
As they give life to me.
This is our love letter.
Pentrechwyth.