Polperro, 1917
No delivery vans seen edging down narrow streets,
Their tyres rubbing hard on gaudy yellow lines;
No tawdry souvenir shops, or lucky piskies to be sold,
No chip shops frying, no cluttering road signs…
No bed and breakfast hostelries, no vintage tea-rooms,
No swarms of tourists, no parking restrictions;
No discarded bottles or fast food containers,
No mobile phone alerts or notifications…
Just a group of children, a parity of souls…
Fishing for crabs? A photographer’s pose?
Obligatory caps on the heads of the lads,
Tough old boots and clothes fit for purpose…
A working village during the First World War,
Its clusters of buildings lie gloomily stark;
Opaque harbour water resists reflective light,
Varnished moored vessels lie vacant and dark…
Polperro has risen on a damp, dank morning,
With no visitors to cater for, no need to impress;
No make-up daubed, no facelift necessary,
For the village has only its survival to address…
Pete Ray
September 2017
100 years on, this image, taken by Cecil Bostock, made me think…
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