Old John Nee
Still driving his octogenarian
Tractor up and down the road.
Splutters and spumes of smoke
Billow after himas he puffs furiously on his briar pipe.
What hurries him now aged 83
But he’s not saying ; not a word
Just the fierce determination set on his face
Suggest his industry's as industrious as ever
Lot to do , and more to follow ,
Well for you , no time for idle chatter .
Mrs H , a little tipsy , coming daintily along the path
She’s been in town since Saturday ,
In the hotel , drinkng with the anglers all week-end
And it’s a shame , they say;
She’s got a weakness
A strong weakness
For strong drink
Its sad , but its also a shame.
Anyway , she just cant abide
Her sons new bride .and who could blame her
Womans a hussy - wears Italian leather -
Far too tight ; and shes not that slim
That she can wear skirts that tight
In church on Sunday , Roman fashion.
The cherry blossom blows along the lane
Leaving a scent of summer
Confetti -clinging ; a flare of pink,
And the man from the cottage is taken away again
To the mental institution whence he came.
Started howling at the cattle again last night ,
Frightening his neighbours greyhounds ,
Leering at the little girls next door
Who skipped hurriedly past his gaping door ,
Quickstepped and goose pimpled
He had to go.
Mr Forde the school headmaster
Walks to the pier ; studies the weathervane
Considers how long the southerly wind
Will carry the fly life across the surf
But with temperature low
It is a fair guess that the hatches will last
Till his holidays come in June .
Dear God, at last.
The parish priest takes his pre-prandial
Walk to the lake shore
To see that all is well in the parish
And makes a mental butterfly- count
He studies heathers that suit them best
You can always tell , when nature's content
It’s the nectar in the heather ; sweet and mellow
Makes their jaunty flight more gay,
And it also suits honey bee ,
But he confines his studies to the butterfly.
The parson keeps bees
It's a parson thing ; beekeeping.
The local doctor sitting in his car ,
With smoke- darkened windows
Pours himself another stiff gin
And reads from his book on Greek mythology
Maybe this year , he’ll get to the Acropolis
Alone , and see centaurs in a wine- sweet dream,
Cross the fields or Argos , veiled virgins , on the Aegean wind ,
And hopefully the temple of Bacchus ,
And the cherry blossoms
Flutter and fall like goose -down
All along our lane .
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