TWO POEMS FOR OUR LITTLE TOWN
More from the 'Haven Bard'!
By Richard Beckett
Spring 2010 Newhaven .Degeneration not Re-generation
In days of old in our fair town, The children played and romped around
The bad old days we thought were past, The good days looked as if to last,
But now the futures looking grim, They want to let the rubbish in
The Sussex Planners let us down, They do not care about our town
For soon will come the Rubbish cart’, The rubbish burning soon will start
Then rancid fumes will fill the air, And on still days will just lie there.
Not cool and tranquil mist of old, Spread oe’r the town so damp and cold
But a putrid fetid choking gown, Unmoving, grey or deadly brown
From far and wide will lorries come, From Brighton Hove and places
So we can breathe the filthy fumes, They don’t want in THEIR faces
No, we must suffer, and we will, The selfishness of them
To we who live in this small town, This fetid air condemn
Regeneration of the Town they say, On that I will not bet
A life of putrid air we’ll breathe, Both day and night we’ll get
For can’t they see that it will bring, Upon the town it’s doom
Who’ll want to live and work and breathe, In daily deadly gloom
Beneath a blanket of bad air, But they’re not here So they don’t care
For them Newhaven is fair game, To them Newhaven’s just a name
A place where all their rubbish goes, As long as it’s not there
A burner large in their back yard, The planners couldn’t care
And once the deadly burner’s built, Then we will live ‘neath deadly quilt
And die from breathing all those fumes, That o’er our little town now looms
May 2011
Oh no M’Lud ‘Twill not intrude, upon the local scene
We’ll build it low & un-ob-trusive, it will not be seen
Those words were spoken, years ago by better men than we
To mighty Judges on the bench, so they might just agree
They made it all sound great, a very simple place
Not something that would really stand, and stare you in the face
And so permission they did get, to build this monstrous pile
Which now looms o’er this little town, and residents revile
Two chimneys standing tall and thin, tower o’er the town of New Hay Ven
And daily as the lorries come, Newhaven be-comes more a slum
Some hundred tons and more a day, is what they state will come our way
And to ensure there are no blips, then even more will come by ships
To watch the pence and watch the cost, and just make sure it’s not a loss
To make the building all worthwhile, the deadly fumes spew from this pile
To daily feed it’s gaping mouth, the rubbish comes from North and South
And faster, faster, more and more, the lorries line up at the door
So all the time the dreaded fumes spew out across the land
And those who let the plans go through, strut round and say “How Grand”
But they who said it should be built within this little town
Set low upon a valley floor surrounded by the Downs
Don’t live or work, or breathe round here,
Oh no, they had their say
For where they live they have no fear,
The fumes will blow their way
So yet another nail is set, within New Hay Ven’s coffin
And that is what we’ll all be doing,
Coughing, Coughing, Coughing.
Richard Beckett