Back in the day
when rural communities remained the same~
each fading generation fast replaced
by a fresh one with the same faces ~
back when everyone we met down the lane was related ~
and it was risky
to whisper ill remarks to the farmer to our right
about the blacksmith up the road
since they were inevitably cousins or in-laws —
back then I was a foreigner.
One that didn’t belong.
Since then the world has moved on,
sweeping city folk along the motorways,
taking them to new places
to taste a rural idyll.
The old is razed to the ground,
replaced by the new,
which is raised wherever space and Council permits.
The hills now abound with new builds,
their walls concealing:
frail furniture~funky fashion~thrifty finds~fading finery~
fleecy throws~festive flowers~fluttering fragrance~furry friends~
fresh fruit~fried fish~fast food~Tesco Finest~fine lines~finer feelings~
flat feet~futile fights~furtive faces~funny facts~fortuitous fortune~
fandangos~fripperies~flounces and frills~
so-called foreign folk from the cities
though these days few of us notice the difference
and only the fools disapprove,
while I, conceived in the distant smoke
but born in this county over sixty years ago,
walk jauntily down the road in this town
and am finally known
as a local.
The Daily Post #Local
©Jane Paterson Basil