Village Of The Damned

She is one of the last true villagers,
Still sleeping in the house where her mother delivered her,
All those years ago,
Delivered her into a world profoundly different to this one,
Before the cars came to race along the bypass,
Leaving the village to its own devices,
To rot and wither,
Like her beauty.

She spends the days laying on her bed,
Looking up at the patch of sky visible through her small window,
And counting the planes,
On clear days.

She thinks of the passengers sitting inside,
Each rumbling Boeing,
And the destinations they await (that she will never see),
Not that she'd want to,
Of course.

No, the village is her place,
And even the village feels foreign now,
Encroached upon from every direction by the red brick menace,
That reaches out from London like long groping fingers of suburban
intent,
Bringing the noise,
That destroys.

She sighs and raises herself from this afternoon reverie,
To make a cup of tea,
All this fretting will not return to her what is lost,
She knows that soon she will be gone,
But the village will carry on,
Being slowly eaten like the cake she takes from the kitchen
cupboard,
And slices.