Drowsing in the languid summery air
that garden town of yester year, so charming, they said,
trees heavy with fruit, even in the village square.
So bountiful was the harvest, they eagerly read,
that there was ample to share, with even the wildlife,
who revelled in the largesse, and none went unfed.
Ah, those wide streets, teeming with the bustle of life,
wheat-laden wagons trundling in from distant farms,
now trucks rattle in conveying farmers and their wives.
That old courthouse, majestic with Victorian charm,
“Do not spit, fine five pounds”, near the cornerstone.
Tired now, neglected, like the historic barns.
Brash stores line my gracious street of sandstone;
the town hall gazes over a litter-strewn square,
and a row of tawdry shops, as more dereliction is sown.
Old timers sit sadly, with rheumy eyes they stare;
for they remember the young, burgeoning town,
their thoughts contemplating how, when and where.
The wheel of life turns, fortunes can scale down –
Or up – perhaps good fortune may yet favour this little town.
