Where Head Brass Flashed
 
Where head brass flashed, the sun
Now glints from tractor's screen -
The grandson of the man
Who led a patient team
Roars by, cocooned from larks
And diesel's steady thrum,
His airconditioned cab
Awash with Radio 1.
 
Still clopping down the lane
These horses are not led -
No longer set in teams,
The working horse is dead.
These are a different breed
More like a family pet,
On Sunday morning rides
They've never broken sweat.
  
The houses down the lane
Have changed - been much improved,
Extended, modernised
By couples who have moved
Away from urban sprawl.
They breathe the clean fresh air,
Have roses round the door,
But shout, " Keep Warfield Green!!"
When councillors decide,
"The village needs more homes
And a Super Store besides."
 
Made more productive now,
This big field's not the same
Haven for mice and game,
Since they grubbed up the hedge.
Where once the village worked
With pitchfork,scythe and 'hook,
Three men and their machines
Soon frighten off the rooks.
They talk on mobile 'phones
And plan the quickest way
To combine, bale and clear
This field in just one day.
After, they'll drive off home
As they live miles away -
This is a place to work,
But not their place to stay.
 
I sit above it all
Watching a changing scene
Where, combine wreathed in dust,
Proves men can't beat machines.
I write where years before
A scythe and billhook stood,
But I don't push a plough -
That's not my livelihood.....
Instead I push these words
Across a silver screen.
 
I watch the sun break through
Above our reedy stream,
As swallows dart and flash
A cat strolls down the lane ;
Though time and man transform
Some details never change.