Today’spoem

COWMIRE CUT

Cowmire Cut was a lane that meandered for a country mile, Through scented meadows, high hedgerows and a secret stile.

A hidden perch where children, when twilight closed the day,

Could see hedgehogs foraging and boisterous hares at play.

Rooks squabbling in the high elms and an owl in silent flight.

A time when badgers emerged to sniff the air of night.

Spring came early to Cowmire Cut, banishing winter’s veil,

With the kind of kiss that awoke Snow White in the old fairy tale.

The hawthorns, nudged by spring’s caresses, Hastily donned their pale pink dresses.

Cowslips and primroses, roused from sleep From the dead leaves of autumn, would shyly peep. Mere memories now for Cowmire Cut was on a list, Of neglected backwaters that would not be missed. It was a site someone decreed for ‘rural renovation’, A term dreamed up by planners for mindless desecration. Bulldozers no questions ask; there are no ayes or noes Ruthlessly they began their task by uprooting the hedgerows. Sycamores and oaks which for a century had stood, As Cowmire’s serene sentinels were reduced to piles of wood. Windowless warehouses now stand; forlorn, gaunt and grey,

On a bleak plateau of concrete where lambs used to play.

Symbols of prosperity, the planners said with pride, Or a line of hideous headstones defiling the countryside? Spring still makes an early call, but the kisses she bestows,

Fall on ghastly breeze block eyesores in regimented rows. Cowmire Cut was a hedge-flanked country lane that led, Through scented meadows to the Old King’s Head. An oak-beamed country tavern; an oasis of delights, Where thirsty travellers might linger on warm summer nights. Customers now arrive in cars, but have no time to stay,

For the Old King’s Head is now another fast-food takeaway.

Alan Whittaker, Cleobury Mortimer, Shropshire.