20/21st Century Gentry

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 our heads.

Celebrations, there have been many, 

Family parties, fetes, make-merry,

All held in the village hall. 

Sunday School, Monday School, Brenda - thanks all;

Posies for Mother's Day, carols and hymns,

The Church was our flock and it gathered us in. 

Christingles and christenings, nativities too

Brought us a light that lasted years-through.

I moved out, to town mouse, when I learned to drive, 

But miss all the green space that keeps me alive. 

Mum and Dad still live here now, 

And sweat still pours down from Dad's brow.

He seems to fear the day he'll rest

As if it will feel second best;

Work to him is pride you see,

Tending, of use, great worker-bee 'ee. 

2023 and still the classes divide, 

The bigger the place see, the more room to hide;

Behind the acres of exotic blooms,

In cavernous rarely-swept, bill-soaring rooms, 

Where huntsmen quaffed port from old crystal decanters, 

Held up on their silverware, by colloquial grafters, 

Next-geners now echo throughout their grand walls, 

Running rings round their parents as they race through the halls. 

I hope that they too get to laugh and to play, 

As we all did growing up here, way back in the day, 

Not find their estate finances are in too great a state, 

A burden beholden on their handed plate. 

A wage is a wage at the end of the week,

But what price do we pay if we don't really speak? 

Cross boundaries, care, no need now to be meek, 

We're in different boats but they all tend to leak! 

We get but one life and we all try to live it, 

Observing or serving, it's a gift if you give it. 

A Wensley 

10.01.2023