There are those who wear hats whilst walking their dogs in villages.

There is a plumpness in the air, that says

we never lack two Sundays in a week; and there

is the surety of God's acre stretching greenly. 

An unspoken suspicion that it's all fake news,

CGI conjured and served from breakfast to supper,

the only reality being the barking of contented dogs

and the comforting presence of other like minded souls.

The walk is measured, assuredness of a full belly

and the scented pleasure of newly mown grass,

contained and encapsulated in the liturgical drone

of boundaried village sights and sounds; 

the sweet song of larks, ancient oaks bronzing, 

the norman church that has stood for centuries, 

but perhaps no longer stands for very much at all.

Soon enough, the walk is over, a last footstep echoes.

Guilty thoughts rise, only to be cast aside

as the insularity expands, searching for,

but never quite reaching the edge of the village;

as those who wear hats whilst walking their dogs

count up their blessings and reckon the odds.

Overhead of course, the birds still fly

to preordained destinations.

Formations sensing the winds of change,

the beating of wings no less regular

than the rhythm of the till in the corner shop

as it salts away the fruits of casual largesse;

whilst somewhere, somewhere that is 

not really so very far away, a child lies in

hungry sleep, dreaming of a comfort that never comes. 

Reviews

[Eilis]

I thought this poem was extraordinary, Beccy. Your message is one that is close to my own heart, and indeed the gap between those who want for nothing and those who struggle to make ends meet grows wider and wider.

How it can be that pets are better fed than children in a civilized society is beyond me, but we have long ago subscribed to this belief by and large that each must earn his own while failing to take in to account the many factors that divide people and make earning easy for some and difficult for others. Equality of birth is a myth. Especially when some children are born into families and communities that have suffered generations of hardship and deprivation and others are born in to families and communities that have flourished for generations. It belongs to us, the society, to care enough about the fate of mankind to intervene when we see need.

But like your dog walkers passing the church and either seeing nothing or seeing only an object of historical interest, the spirit of kindness and generosity—charity—was long ago stricken from the public mind and replaced with avarice and self-satisfaction. If only we as a collective society took more time to put ourselves, truly, in the shoes of others to try and understand the grander scale of experience that runs counter to our own.

This is excellent, thoughtful and provocative poetry. The kind of work I strive to produce, but I don’t think I’ve ever achieved this standard of social commentary alongside such lyricism. It’s great work.

[Terpsichore]

What a title! And what a poem. No doubt the 'full bellied,' would be pulling those hats lower down over their faces in shame if they got to read this.

T.

[barleygirl]

Your poem has an unusual air of being somewhat removed from the situation you're describing. You do a meticulous job of including a ton of detailed description (vivid!), but this story is more being told in the realm of observation than to be conveyed as tho in the midst of the experience. I also find it interesting & unexpected that this walk sounds like a doddering old-ish person in a steadfast routine, rather than the more uninhibited romping that some might do in a more "unleashed" way! I guess this must be more of a city dog walk! *wink! wink!* Fondly, Margie

[Beccy]

Observation, yes, thank you so much for that; it was exactly the tone I was trying to convey.

Complacency may yet be the death of our species.

[alanwgraham]

This is a wonderful poem Beccy about our complacent contented existence with many brilliant images. The lines about the Norman church is very clever but only one of many. I am very jealous of your skill with words. Your final lines shakes us out of any complacency and bring as back to the raw brutal reality existing outside.
Power to your pen!
Alan

[jacob erin-cilberto]

we do need to count our blessings...there is so much animosity and fake news...and fake people---

there is honesty in writing..there has to be....and hopefully among poets we can achieve that.

i really like this, Beccy.
j.

[Dave]

Funny, when we are children we never really think of getting old. When we reach it we wonder where all our youth has gone. Where is the United States of our younger days. Surely we have the benefits of modern technology, not the least of these the wonders of medicine. Lost, so long ago, it seems the camaraderie of neighbors and friends. The worst part of getting old is feeling old, that too often are best efforts are for naught.

[h d e rushin]

I was reading the caption on my new feed this morning: "Stunning New Photo's of Isolated Tribe". It went on to say how deep in the Brazilian rain forest this protected, indian tribe freely pursue a timeless way of living. I thought about your second stanza here where the whole notion of "protection" exists. Where diciest collaps but village sounds, sweet songs of larks remain leturgical and resounding. Like the so called lost tribe in the Brazilllian forest, if we place our faith in man alone then wherever we go will be a preordained destination. Better to remain lost and naked; ancient and unforgiven......great poem my friend.

[Jimmy Yetts]

Instinct has its advantages over reason and free will--one of which is overall comfort.
An excellent poem, Beccy!

[Onlyme]

How true, every one has an uniquie path and some souls do not have a good one. Heartfelt and so profoundly sincere.

[emmajoy]

' Guilty thoughts rise, only to be cast aside ~ as the insularity expands, searching for, ~ but never quite reaching the edge of the village. '

After reading that, I feel we sometimes walk similar paths, noting history altering or even disappearing whilst others make believe that time's stood still or that they pay the privilege of walking God's earth by pretending they control the clock. But only you, can lay these words as graphically as you, never could observation be as acute - or the mind be as empathically, tragically accurate. More than superb, darlin' dear.'