The village poem

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Broadwindsor from Lewesdon Hill

A poem written by the community for the Diamond Jubilee of

Queen Elizabeth II 2012

Broadwindsor

Where the summer mist descends like Brigadoon.

Broadwindsor.

It’s a wonderful place to be, with its distant glimpses of the sea,

with a friendly face round every corner.

We go here, we go there

but we all come together to enjoy.

Popcorn-less cinema in the village hall and

hearing the shouts and the laughter as the boys run with the ball

on the field.

The post office ran out of money.

Never mind the weather, be it sunshine or be it rain,

nothing will deter the dog walkers

of Common Water Lane.

The heart of the village is Broadwindsor Square,

where the ley lines cross.

Broadwindsor.

Feeling very fortunate and a little bit smug

when visitors comment on what a lovely place we live in,

but equally sad when they see only fog.

Sometimes, it can all get a bit too claustrophobic,

especially when it’s been wet all month.

Fog.

The clock strikes thirteen as a ginger wig blows up the path to the church,

where it was standing room only when the Rev Thomas Fuller was parson.

Broadwindsor,

it’s where Charles II hid from the Roundheads in 1651.

Characters with tales to tell of years gone by.

They must be recorded before they depart.

A caring, sharing walk in the past.

Things ain’t what they used to be,

when the over-sixties were toddlers.

So much to do we are spoilt for choice.

Broadwindsor.

The mists come swirling, wrapping us all in their damp blanket.

Fog.

But you will never get lost, it’s always so bright,

the lamp-posts in the Square make it seem like

daylight.

Broadwindsor has a pub, Mosterton has a shop.

Let’s swop.

The shop it is shut but the pub is still here,

though you can’t get your milk,

you can still get a beer.

Shop open, pub open.

Shop shut, pub shut.

Pub open, shop open?

Fog.

Tranquillity,

the noise of military jets,

‘the sound of freedom’.

No ghosts or ghouls like village life

but techno viruses are rife!

There is often some fog

and there is often some mist.

Oh, and the drizzly rain,

that’s on the list.

Shrouded in mist,

the village could be missed.

With only three buses a day

keeps the village hidden away.

Bathed in summer sunlight,

a village of sheer delight.

Broadwindsor.

Fog.

And the fairies on Lewesdon help you on your way,

as the lime green leaves of the beech trees sway.

The school, with its hive of quiet activity,

distant shouts and giggles from the playground,

the only clear sound being the ringing of the old school bell

to signal the end of playtime.

Collect gossip galore

from the post office floor.

Remember those summer days,

long and hot.

The skylark singing high above,

the blackbird in early morning singing.

Look at the scenery,

beautiful trees and hills.

Every season is a delight.

Friends on our doorstep,

people you can rely on for support

and you can call your friends,

regardless of politics.

The ebb and flow of people and seasons

make village life a joy to experience.

Oh to be in Broadwindsor at cream tea time!

Oh to be on Lewesdon, every day of the year.

Fog.

There are folks that will and those that won’t,

here today and gone tomorrow.

A little haste and less speed.

Broadwindsor.

It’s a happy place where people come but rarely go.

Unless it’s in a box.

Our Queen is great, let’s celebrate.

We drink a toast to our special Queen

for her sixty years’ reign.

Village people, young and old,

a diamond year will behold.

A Dorset village free from strife,

ensuring such a happy life.

Harmony and peace will in our village never cease.

Sunshine in Beaminster, rain in Broadwindsor,

rain in Beaminster, snow in Broadwindsor.

Fog.

Broadwindsor.

Where charity begins at home

but it doesn’t end there.

  

Postscript

A man had far too much to drink.

‘I must go home,’ he began to think.

He tried to stand up and fell to the floor.

So he decided to crawl out of the door.

‘I’ll never get up,’ to himself he said.

‘I won’t try again, I’ll crawl instead.’

His wife found him on the step asleep.

‘I went for a drink,’ he said ‘like a sheep.’

‘I know what made you crawl so far.

Your bloody wheelchair’s left at the bar.’

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