See the village sign stand haughty,
By a crock of golden flower's,
I can hear the bells Of All Saints,
Striking out the quarter hours.

On my right the Grey Horse sleeping,
After last nights merry crowd,
Hurried workmen exit One-Stop,
Jump in van and rev up loud.

See the Ancient Cross a standing,
Midst a beautiful display,
Wave to George and Mickey Durham,
As they go about their day.

Passing Copper Beaches Rest Home,
Someone's mother looking out,
Watching John Bates playing croquet,
In the garden there about.

Slowly walk passed Ping's Insurance,
Watch the busy people fuss,
Opposite stands Alice Dawson,
Waiting for the Newark bus.

Busy shoppers throng the pavement,
Carrying their weeks supply's,
Gascoigne's magazines and papers,
One of Malcolm's famous pies.
 
Methodist's outside the chapel,
Gather for a coffee break,
Chatting to familiar faces,
Charitable funds they make.

Now outside the Postal Office,
Dodging traffic cross the street,
Fetch prescription from the chemist's,
Passed the Co-op now complete.

Hazel working in the library,
All day long she's stamping books.
Ask her for an unknown author,
On computer there she looks.

By the Hall that was erected,
For our countrymen so brave,
In those wet and violent trenches,
Valiantly their young lives gave.

Battered Royal Oak still standing,
After cars and lorries try,
To remove its walls and windows,
As they carelessly drive by.

Passed the Green where celebrations,
Every May time fill the air,
Village people mass in numbers,
For the Fete that gathers there.

Reaching now the Village boundary,
Dale Field attracts my eye,
Where young David tends the wicket,
Watched by Trevor Woodcock nigh.

Now my Village walk has ended,
Such a pleasure to complete,
Maybe my returning journey,
Will be back along Low Street.

The Phantom Scribbler. 1999