Yorkshire Red

They called me a Communist When only just a teen Nothing much has changed in Those Sixty years in between. My village once had fourteen farms Now it’s just got one or two Those employed in the village Are now very far and few. It’s commuter land these days Almost deserted on weekdays An almost soulless place With modern village ways. There was Social Housing then Now it’s mainly owner occupied Very few common folk there Now it’s well and truly gentrified. The old Falcon Inn once well used As village meet and social club Has been renovated and become A stylish seldom open Gastro Pub. My dad’s old cottage still stands Only because it’s been listed Next door has been knocked through As though it had never existed. Two hundred years the family home Now any trace of us long gone It’s what these days they call progress As life ambles and stumbles on. A place of many required lessons Which I never did manage to learn. Only old family graves there now So I seldom bother to return. They called me a Communist Because I wouldn’t doff my cap To the Johnny-cum-lately Squire Touring the village by pony and trap.