COMPETITION

Sour Auburn

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1970 you were invited to update, in heroic couplets, Goldsmith's 'Deserted Village', a descrip- tion of the degeneration of the quality of life in a rural community.

`There is nothing much you can do about it. Almost since Goldsmith's time and up to the present there have been all sorts of back-to-the-land movements, folk-dance, festival and country furniture revivals, handcraft colonies, garden cities and hippy communities, but none of them has made any lasting headway against "trade's unfeeling train" and all the vulgar forces that overwhelmed sweet Auburn.' Sombre and true words from the preface by John Michell to the privately printed 'Deserted Village' which he kindly gave me at Christmas and which I immediately reread with doubled pleasure. Hence this compe- tition, one of the best in months. D.E. Poole, Chris Tingley, Gerard Benson, Alanna Blake and Philip Dacre unluckily lose in a blurred photo-finish that almost broke the camera. The prizewinners, print- ed below, get £25 each, and the bonus bot- tle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky goes to Godfrey Bullard.

Where jagged cans and slobber'd cartons lie To stain the verdure and offend the eye,

Ungovern'd hounds their foetid waste discharge On turfy eminence or sylvan marge, While the helm'd rider at our startled heels Usurps the pathway for his flashing wheels. Torn schedules, pendent from yon peeling wall, State when the vanish'd omnibus would call: , No schools remain, where eager youth could find Its vital nurture to enrich the mind, And seven parishes now join to share A single parson's conscientious care. In each uprooted hedge the songbirds fail — A thrush unheard, a voiceless nightingale While butterflies, 'neath pesticidal spray,

Flutter their radiant wings, and fall away. , (Godfrey 13ullarcl/

0 little town that witnessed two wars cease, What horrors you endure in days of peace! juice Shuffle sons you raised on rationed meat and uice Shuffle in fear of twelve-year-old abuse.

Your varnished classrooms, once inspiring fear, Where cursing earned a clip around the ear, Are turned to slums where tyrant pupils rule, And all but education's sold in school. Your village streets that laughed with childish games, Once mugger-free and wearing English names, Are alleyways where police-folk fear to tread, Stages for idlers busking for their bread. The corner shop that rang its friendly bell Is now a hyperstore with worlds to sell,

And where prompt service met a tactful cough Indifference stands and bids you bugger off.

(Frank McDonald) Ill fares the village when the eager hand Of the developer lays hold of land! Full soon his 'homes' with Tudor stripes are seen,

Not just around, but on the village green;

And then refurbished cottages appear, For labouring swain and peasantry too dear. The young depart to join the rodent-race, And see weekender strangers in their place. A wealthy oaf, once deemed the village fool, Now reigns in the converted village school. The small, familiar, friendly shops are gone - A supermarket killed them, then moved on Two miles away. It covers half a farm, Rut, for the carless poor, it holds no charm. As for that brook where mantling cresses spread, It's now a sewer with tarmac overhead.

(0. Banfield) The village shop stood there, where nettles grow; Its till fell silent many years ago.

There, where you went to chat and buy a stamp, A London borough runs a weekend camp Where puzzled children come on Friday nights To gaze uncomprehending at the sights: Hedges and fields stretch endless to the view, And there is not the slightest thing to do. Experienced locals, such as still remain, Bolt up their premises, and hope for rain. The village pub, which once relief afforded, Lies dark and silent, with its windows boarded. But still the church remains, and has at least Twice-monthly visits from a far-off priest. Its vicarage gone, its mournful bell bewails Long burgled treasures sold in car-boot sales.

(Paul Griffin) Sweet Auburn! once the slattern of the plain, Rowdy, unkempt, unwashed from rain to rain; Now silent, philosophic, tidy, clean The artiste's haven and the hack's demesne! The lowing herd that would befoul the lea Is culled to gratify the EEC.

Now box and privet hem each small estate, Stone-claddings over bricks predominate, The raucous inn, where late the cider jar Raised song and anger, is a prim wine bar. Sleepers at dawn no longer cursing stand; By order, cocks and Sabbath bells are banned. From the old schoolhouse runs no shrilling stream Of infants — bussed to yell in Birmingham. A prudent hush ennobles Auburn's days, Unless the wind blows from the motorways.

(Annelise McArdle) Sweet Hebburn! Loveliest village of the Dales, Where agents thrive on country-cottage sales, Where local speech, six centuries old and more, Competes with the adjacent six-lane roar, Thy grey, grave church sounds to th'electric string, As those who come to pray are urged to 'swing', Thy ancient tavern's psychedelic lights And quadrophonic sound defile the nights, While townees flock to sample, from afar, The Tudor Takeaway's new Burger Bar. Thy school, where erst the patient scholars sat, Is now become a Studio With Flat.

Each cottage to the Internet is wired, Thy populace commutes, or is retired.

How happy he who, in quaint spots like these, Lives out his age in sham-bucolic ease!

(Alyson Nikiteas)