Village Poem by Jim Young

When a house grows smaller as a boy grows taller
Introversion and extroversion meld
Translucent, and the glowing walls recede.
A child forces order on the days, where
This goes here, and that goes there.
For an eternal game's afoot.
Every corner whispers of yesterday,
Spinning the silk of tomorrow,
Crocheted by his hands from the pulse of stones.
Warm-walled in maternal mortar.


Coal grit on the fading carpet bites his knees at play.
As the chimney's azure genie grandiloquently enters,
Hesitates, and retreats with a curtsy as the flue inhales.
The Westminster chimes pall his play,
And he feels the time of day, for
Mum's in the kitchen cooking, stirring,
Dads at the kettle bowl washing away,
The grime of work, scum cold in soapy water.
He settles back dressed with an attitude for dinner.
Later, as the newspaper slips through his fingers,
He nods, he sighs, as the fire snores.

The aspic parlour belies a squalor that could be
Residing here, if the dark facade's deceit were true.
But from room to untidy room this house is home
It kiss-cuddles, swaddling deep.
Far from the coal store under the stairs, or
The scullery mice scuttling away,
The fireside toast is branded on the fork and tea
Tethers to the bright red hearth,
But up to bed he has to go.
To a hedgehog curling bed, cold, peeking out at the
Dark shapes shivering in the icy moonlight.
The long day exhales, sliding slowly away,
Dreaming down and away... down and away.

Where sits a house in a village of houses, or in
A terrace such as Rifleman's Row?
What do the faces in the little windows see?
Or the gossiping doors entertain?
Well, stand at the dilapidated valley gate,
Where impudent slag tips stare black,
And the howling hooter's call to work,
Will surely set the scene.
Across the river valley
The mirror terraces agree.
For as the feet on fingerprint slab-stones
Ply to chapels, churches, shops, and schools,
Upon the slag dashing river frothing,
Stands a village,
Pentrechwyth!