THAX-DEAD
by Ian Yearsley
Thaxted was once a thriving town:
A cutlers' guild could quickly build
A new guildhall which would enthral
In later times, inspire rhymes
And photographs, resound with laughs
On summer Sunday outings one
Once went upon. Those days have gone.
It once was so magnificent:
It’s noble church, a falcon's perch,
Held those in awe who daily saw
Its sky-high spire rise ever higher
As cutlers' funds made moribunds
Prolong their breaths, delay their deaths
And linger on. Those days have gone.
Its commerce and its trade were great:
So much success did Heaven bless
Its busy lives with, cutlers' knives
Could fund through sales planks, bricks and nails
To build with style, still seen for miles
On Thaxted hill, a great windmill
To gaze upon. Those days have gone.
And what about those almshouses –
All trim and neat and cute and sweet
Which housed the poor, the aged or
Those most in need who could not feed
Themselves with what they little got –
The cutlers' built? There was no guilt
When they went on. Those days have gone.
What would those traders then have made
Of Thaxted now, on seeing how
The town they'd built's begun to wilt
Under the strains of aeroplanes
Above one's head from loud Stansted?
This emptying town will tumble down.
It won't be long before it's dead.
© 2006
