Rodborough Fields and the Lifting of a Curse
If they build upon this field,
Springs will o’er-turn their water table,
Peasants will harrow their dreams,
Cut ridges in their anxious brows.
If they build upon this field,
Weavers will riot in the moonlit night,
Stretch nightmares on tenterhooks,
Turn their eyes Stroud Scarlet.
If they build upon this field,
The Frome will burst its banks,
Flood their conscience with remorse,
Leaching stains of turbid regret.
If they build upon this field,
Grass will grow in their pockets,
Celandine in their bank vaults,
Weeds in their account books.
But if we stop you building on this field,
Then money will rain upon your garden,
Goodness will grow within your heart,
And generosity in your soul.
If we as a community buy thus field,
Then beer will flow up The Prince Albert,
People will wander the common,
Or walk into town, feeling the pulse of the earth.
The ghosts of Christmas Past will gather,
In the lanes and hollow ways and footpaths,
And drink a toast to the indefatigable defenders
Of Rodborough Past, Present and Future:
For then the curse will be lifted.
So raise a glass for the lifting of the curse.