Much prose has been written about the sell-off of Eastbourne downland; including by us.
We thought that a little verse might vary things a little, hence ‘The Green, Green Grass of Home’ – Eastbourne 2017 version.
The Old South Downs looked the same, as I stepped down from the train
But there to greet me were a host of barbed wire fences.
Down the lane I looked and there stood Mary, looking bitter and contrary.
“It’s gone,” she said, “the green, green grass of home.”
The old Town Hall’s still standing, for their empire they’re expanding.
There was tut-tutting in the council chamber.
“They sold green for gold,” screamed maddened Mary, “no more sheep and no more dairy
They stole from us the green, green grass of home.”
Now I wake up and look around me, at seas of concrete that surround me
And I realise: no, I wasn’t dreaming.
For there are building crews and smirking bankers, fracking wells and oil tankers.
No more, I’ll touch the green, green grass of home.
Yes, our hands we are wringing, while the council’s coffers are a-filling,
While they bury the green, green grass of home.
MARTIN HILLMAN and DAVID ELLIS
Hawks Road, Hailsham
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