I first noticed the village pump some years ago

when there were farms, spreading fields,

a lovers lane, open sky to the west.

 

Today, I find a maze of habitation,

a settlement satisfied with itself,

taking serenity for granted

 

leaving such little trace;

a pond of sorts surviving,

crude tyre marks of mountain bikes

bloodied by mud at the bank.

 

I was frankly lost

but then, as the sullen sun made jewels

of TV aerials I wandered

at the mercy of strangeness

and found that pump again,

 

it's spout and handle like the beak and tail

of a cormorant petrified,

a still life in its frame from the past. 

 

It was here we played Mr and Mrs in the sun,

my biceps against your thighs,

our two bikes on their sides in the grass.

 

We fantasized then about textbook yokels

slaking their thirst under that same merciless sun

host to new invaders,

 

to the raising of families

caught up in their destinies

while ours perished in the dustbowl

of forgotten dreams.