The Village

Caught between hills of summer green

And winter’s pristine white

The Village is a throwback to

A simpler kind of life

…where steepled church and Peopled walks

And clothes-line’s lilting tune

Are more than an idyllic plot

In fancy’s Brigadoon

The arbors there wear flowered lace

Its summer-child, no shoes

The general store a meeting place

To catch up on the news

…and no one is a stranger there

But rather, family

Lemonade afternoons are shared

Beneath the willow tree

Mothers wear aprons with pockets

These hold a handkerchief

To wipe the nose of freckled Fred

Or tears from Peggy’s cheek

…and on the quiet, country air

Of twilight’s waning scrim

Its hush may bear the whistled lay

Of an old favored hymn

The street is shared with ponied carts

Progress, a word for books

Trundled in picnic baskets

To a haven by the brook

…where caught between soft hills of green

Or winter’s silent night

The Village is a throwback to

The very best of life

© Janet Martin

That’s why, when we lost one of our own,

We lost a piece of The Village.

The village I refer to is the one I grew up in…

I live on the outskirts now,

The store is gone,

The church is empty

…but the clotheslines still lilt,

The farmers still whistle,

And the people are still as friendly as can be,

We all say ‘we should meet more often’,

Then rush on to where we are going…

 These photos are tidbits from two local villages, one mine and the other my sister's...
Their general store is in full business!

These two photos taken by Ashley Curry