Bungalows

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.

 Simon French
 

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Simon French  would be pleased to hear them.