Here is a town unhinged. A town possessed
by little things. The naming of a space,
the sacred right of sheep to safely grace
the common, split infinitives - the test
of I-was-always-taught correctness. Pressed
for reason, there is none beyond a face
of Podsnap petulance. Is there a place
for question left, where Malvern stone knows best?
Still, there is time to walk the hills and breathe
far fresher air than any you will find
among the mullioned piles that sleep beneath
a century's dull legacy of blind
and curtained eyes; and time to tolerate those
who claim to serve but only stand in Waitrose.