Flight, by Catherine Redfern

("Most of man's ills come from his inability to sit quietly in a room"  -  Blaise Pascal)

But, Blaise, your countrymen ignored you.
Look: look at the balloon.
That was the beginning:
man getting above himself

Balloon, bi-plane, channel hops,
aces high, slaughter figures rising.

And a second time: dog-fights, night raids,
the East End flattened, Dresden demolished;
but all quite neatly finished
in a distant land,
the quiet tea ceremony shattered
with some new equipment.

And still the restlessness.
How can a room 
contain this flight,
this longing for the stars,
this race to be the first?
The Moon was the glowing prize, 
now Mars is in his sights.

Blaise, you are quite alone
in that quiet room.
Man has been chasing other worlds,
but soon enough
- surely soon enough? -
he wil return.
This little Earth,
suffering and sickly,
needs his cherishing.

Sweet Auburn, by Peter Morford

A visitor seeing Auburn for the first time would see it as a bit of authentic English history.
Come to Auburn and enjoy its Englishness. Take a seat under one of the protected oaks and admire the 800 year old church with its faded sign inviting you to support their repairs fund. There’s a Tudor pub, a cafe calling itself "The Old Smithy", and the cottages have wild life gardens and hanging baskets. Gnarled Wisterias reach the thatched roofs. All in all, you might think it’s an idyllic place to live.
   Opposite the church is Mr Seth’s farm gate. Mr Seth is a relic of his own ancestry. His farm, or rather small-holding, is just productive for his ageing family’s needs. They have a cow for her fresh un-adulterated milk. They eat their lamb and wear their wool, home-spun by Mrs Seth. They have just enough land to produce all the fruit and vegetables they need. The pigsty and hen-run provide the rest of their diet. He nurses his old Massey-Ferguson tractor because it’s his only vehicle and is cheap to run on red diesel. They even have a little surplus to sell to the just-surviving village shop.
   Sometimes, more for sport, Mr Seth will shoot a few pigeons or rabbits. Recently he shot a drone which had been annoying him. So be not misled by the apparent tranquillity! 
   Next to the church is the 18th century rectory, built for a large family, but recently the vicar and his small family hadlived in just three rooms, leaving the rest to nature. Before it could fall down through neglect, the Church Commissioners found a hedge fund manager who was used to London prices and knew a bargain when he saw one. “For the price of my three roomed flat in Canary Wharf I can live in the country,” he told his accountant.
   The new owner extended it and generally concealed all the original features. He built a four-car garage for their son’s Lamborghini, his wife’s purple Range Rover and the orange Humvee he’s always wanted for himself. A pair of Harley-Davidsons had their own space. He replaced the low garden wall with railings and a security gate. And now what do we see? An extended old vicarage, renamed Hedgefund House. It is protected by powered iron gates and conspicuous security devices. When they have a party the favoured guests land their helicopters on the back lawn.
  The neighbours object to the noise. But the Hedges have their problems too. Unpleasant country smells waft over from the Seth’s farm. A tycoon needs his rest without the disturbance of those strident bells counting out the quarters. Mr Hedge, in the spirit of being a decent chap, got himself on to the Parish Council, the better to make his protests. Old Seth turned up at the PC meetings to fight his case. “Get they foreigners out,” became the slogan 
of Sweet Auburn: loveliest village of the plain.