Back then you could discover a village
The old Ford seemed to know the way
Past broken hedgerows
Under arching Ash tunnels
To the valley floor
~
Cottage gardens were dressed for late spring
In garlands of wisteria and pouting tulips
Baby sun dappled leaves jostled for attention
Amongst the pretentious cherry blossom
~
The Roebuck Inn looked inviting
With bottle glass windows and Tudor oak
But wanting a half hour to opening time
So onward to Maynards tea rooms
~
Under the scrutiny of feminine eyes
I felt like an invader to an alien world
Dressed in tweeds and sensible blouses
The Women’s Institute had taken up residence
~
I sought the seclusion of a window seat
Whishing for a newspaper to hide behind
When Miss Marple finally dismissed me as a suspect
Village chatter resumed over the clink of teacups
~
I ordered English tea in a silver teapot
Sandwiches, dainty on Royal Worcester plate
Munched my way through crust cut bread
And fled for sanctuary to Roebuck Inn
~
In the beer garden a lute player was serenading a sleeping dog
under a May sun giving a passable impression of summer
Vivaldi in a Shropshire village, it seemed to fit somehow
and the lanes home twisted in circles as if reluctant to leave