can nod off. Are retiring. Favour
garden cities or seaside towns.
Vote in elections. We suspect
they tell everyone
the year they were built. Like to keep
a tidy garden and defy hosepipe bans.
They have no natural predators
although are wary
of developers. Their attics
are congested and places of melancholy.
Some spend afternoons
watching tv quiz shows. It reminds them
of imparting knowledge.
We believe they evolved
from elders’ mud huts, revered
and turned to by all in the village. Now
the upstart Barratts and Wimpeys
think they know it all. The mock-Tudors
look down on them. They keep quiet. Wait
for the day we ease onto their doorsteps.
If you have any thoughts on this poem,
Simon French would
be pleased to hear them.