Village Streets

Village Streets

Four o’clock, she pours the tea,

pinkie crooked politely,

“Lovely day,” through quiet teeth,

rain taps slow on village street.

But when the lamps go out at dawn

she’s barefoot on the wet grass lawn,

chasing ghosts of old guitar

from summers lost in ’67’s haze.

Oh lovely rain, fall soft and clean,

cup in hand, a half-smile grin,

British calm in misty green—

proper shell, wild soul within.

Down the village street, Cotswold stone,

down the village street, Yorkshire lone,

down the village street, Highland pine,

rain keeps whispering through the vines.

Pearls and smile at the village fair,

curtsy neat, all manners there,

then slips out back through the old gate

to dance where no one sees the flame.

Oh lovely rain, fall soft and clean,

cup in hand, a half-smile grin,

British calm in misty green—

proper shell, wild soul within.

Down the village street, Devon lane,

down the village street, Edinburgh rain,

down the village street, wild moor call,

sixty-nine summers echo through it all.

She loves you still in tweed and storm,

your clouded skies, your quiet form,

by daylight tame, by moonlight free—

your daughter dancing secretly.