Voices from the Village

~

i.

A little history before we begin.

Let me take you in to Husbands Bosworth,

by a deep and ancient path.

A settlement in the Domesday Book,

in the Hundred of Gartree,

County of Leicestershire.

There were boar and deer in the woods back then.

Lord in 1066: Aelric son of Mergeat.

In 1086, landowners Guy of Raimbeaucourt,

and old Gilbert of Ghent

now to hell or heaven are sent.

All the plough teams are listed,

villagers, freemen, small holders, surfs,

meadows, mills and livestock

are all there in the book.

Let’s have a closer look at my own times.

~

ii.

Some of the families remained.

The manor house still stood,

surrounded by ancient cedars,

close to Sandy Lane

and the church with the gothic spire

that replaced its Saxon sire.

In Spring we had a fete.

The kissing gate was down Dag Lane

on the way to the railway crossing

and strange Ruby’s cottage.

~

iii.

He lived in Honeypot Lane.

In the 1950’s

they watched TV next door

until they got their own.

Things were different then.

We had good neighbours

and everyone mucked in.

I’d go back to that again

without a qualm.

~

iv.

Life was charmed.

We did country dancing in the school yard,

and nature walks

and picnics down Gravel Hole.

Good times were had by all.

The village had a soul.

I think there is some old cine film

of the sword dancing team.

I have boxes of photos in the loft.

I’m going to have a hunt.

~

v.

Uncouth youth,

lolling about and bragging

on the corner on Friday night.

Winkle pickers, hair slicked into a quiff,

duck’s arse at the back.

Sticky with Vaseline.

Lazy lout, hanging about.

Always the last to leave the pub.

Propping the bar, gossiping, boasting, blabbing.

Thinks he’s the king of the village.

Bully boy.

Every decade has one.

~

vi.

I remember the nature walks

up to the gravel pit spinney.

I stumbled on the track

down Tom Smith’s field

and cut my knee.

You remember the way?

I plastered it with burdock.

I still have a scar to this day.

~

vii.

Remember that winter it snowed and snowed?

We had drifts above our knees.

The canal froze over.

Icicles hung in the trees for months.

Horse breath plumed warm and soft as I passed an apple.

~

viii.

I tracked the hares and foxes.

There were footprints everywhere.

That was the year of the Ice Queen.

Fairies and frost.

So clean.

~

ix.

Lizzie with the pig tails

was my best friend back then.

I was nine and she was ten.

I still miss the village,

the fields and Windmill Hill,

the horses in the meadows

and our secret den.

In summer we played all day

and went home with the sinking sun. 

© A.Chakir 2023