Words by A Wensley

20/21st Century Gentry  (or A ballad of East Quantoxhead 1979-2023)  Being brought up, as a small village mouse: The landlord, Sir, in his big house,  My Father working on the land,  My Mother caring, soft of hand -  I had no need, no want of things, Felt joy in all that nature brings.  Our summer days passed on the tops of round bales, Making perfume from flowers, racing woodlice and snails,  While Dad's calloused palms were crossed hard for pay,  Time taken in lieu, few holidays away.  We don't regret our youth and teens,  Building dens and damming streams Freedom calling on the breeze,  Sinking in mud, right to our knees,  Out playing games til the moon was up Drinking squash and making wups. Then back to school for the next term,  Til we were old enough to yearn; Buses to school through country lanes Hours we won't get back again -  But, good friendships made and books well read,  No smartphones then to blur ...

Human strata Layer upon layer, We are but human strata, Gradually wearing away the stories of our past. Yes, you may crumble with the relentless tide,  But in that earth-shattering, Earthquake moment so long ago now,  You held your own!  Your strata are there for all to see, You are truth, solidified forever. Proof that beneath every grass-topped clifftop, (Underneath your superfluous clothes),  There's depth, there's colour, There's a story to be told, Each layer a life!   A time once lived, Is never forgotten. At these cliff-edges in life, Time protrudes through the earth Like an uprising, Demonstrating the power within us all -  To show our inner core! Bare it with pride in the most violent of weathers, When you feel most battered by the waves,  For exposed, you're at your most beautiful. For exposed, you live out your truth. A Wensley East Quantoxhead 2022