A poem by Nell Tolley
Published with kind permission of author
Crabapples
By Ladyheart from morgueFile.com
On hills above the Exe, once stood orchards, flowered,
With pink and white blossoms all were showered.
The streams ran silver, cool, alive.
Horses worked with plough and man with scythe.
Now houses rest on land laid waste
For greedy men who have a taste for money and Riches that come from building in haste.
The people there will never know
How children played in sun and snow.
And in the stable and the barn of
That place called Exwick Farm.
High walls of hedges, clothed in beauty,
Periwinkle, primrose too.
Sometimes strawberries were found; They tasted of the morning dew.
Now, lanes are covered, roads are built
And traffic creates a noise and dust,
Today, upon the surrounding hill,
Instead of joys of countryside,
When all around is still.
Just the sweet sound of bird song
And the calls of grazing cattle
Were all we heard when on the farm, Instead of all that rattle.
Happy children walked the lanes
And never came to harm,
While picking fruit or helping harvest
On that which once was Exwick Farm
George, his work worn hands so gentle,
Guides his horses homeward at the end of day.
Prince and Beauty now move faster,
Looking forward to their hay,
Knowing soon their work is over And the stable they can stay.
These reflections are pictures of the past.
Now buses and lorries rush by so fast
And by the phone box is a trough
Where horses drank, beside a barn.
'tis now placed there to tell us all That this place once was Exwick Farm.