On a long and sandy cove was
a town of cobblestone,
that smelt of fruit and cinnamon;
pies baked in every home.

So quiet was this charming town
without loud stores and cars,
all could be heard were ocean waves
and twinkling of stars.

There was only noise on Mondays,
when all hauled lobster traps
for the weekly town hall supper,
a night of food and dance.

The town hall was showing its age,
all stained and rotting wood.
The lobster and company though,
were positively good.

Dessert was pies of every kind
while fiddlers played songs.
Around the deserted dance floor,
the crowd just clapped along.

The old townfolks weary bones were
not roused by violin,
so unlike many years ago
when they all twirled and spinned.

On a Monday decades before
as the town’s couples dined,
they made a major decision
that all thought was divine.

They decided to close their town
to newcomers and guests,
only with some peace and quiet
would the charming town rest.

They closed every store and kept their
houses off the market,
streets were thinned so car’s drivers would
have nowhere to park it.

In seclusion they lacked nothing,
among them were farmers,
fishers, butchers, cheese makers,
hairstylists and barbers.

And of course the townsfolk could bake,
every woman and man,
pies of rhubarb, apple, berry,
peach, pumpkin and pecan.

For you see the town had a phrase
everyone liked to say:
a daily slice of fresh pie keeps
the lone doctor away.

The quiet town was a triumph
for more than three decades,
now the whole lot of townsfolk had
gotten well on in age.

Across the half-empty town hall
from the stage to the door,
the youngest of the grey-haired bunch
was aged seventy-four.

Until the Monday supper when
during the fiddle clap,
from their old weathered town hall door
came a loud rhythmic rap.

In walked this sweet twenty year-old,
who had a cheery smile,
wore a dress patterned with cherries,
a sweet pie-centric style.

The townsfolk’s eyesight was weak and
dim were the ancient lights,
but this Claire girl’s energy made
the room look clear and bright.

Claire told the townsfolk her saga
of cycling long the shore,
in search of the most perfect spot
for her first ice cream store.

“Your cove is beautiful,” she said,
with such unrivalled views,
might you have any open lots
that I can please peruse?”

Right there and then the townsfolk had
an emergency talk.
Did they want an ice cream store to
which outsiders might flock?

Well, if she opened up a store,
surely she could supply,
a few scoops of ice cream to go
along with their fine pies.

Before they made their decision,
Claire hoped they’d be impressed,
by a bunch of ice cream flavours
she brought them to taste test.

Oh, taste and taste and taste they did,
flavours were delicious,
all these ice creams transcended their
wildest dreams and wishes.

There was chocolate and vanilla,
all the classic flavours,
then these magic concoctions that
the town came to savour.

One flavour tasted like childhood,
one like lifelong friendship,
one flavour tasted of first love,
one like honeymoon trips.

They scooped ice cream on their warm pies,
melting beneath the crust,
everyone ate as much dessert,
they could till they were stuffed.

Claire told them if she had a space
she could make even more.
The town agreed to let her build
a proper ice cream store.

Claire bought a lot along the shore
then dug, hammered and sawed,
constructing a grandiose store
that had the townsfolk awed.

The store was a wooden building
taller than the lighthouse.
“Twas now the town’s tallest structure,”
the lightkeeper pointed out.

Inside the fun store no detail
was taken for granted,
one went in for some ice cream and
left the store enchanted.

And when townspeople ventured to
Claire’s store beside the sea,
Claire piled scoops to the ceiling and
their scoops were always free.

Letting their Claire open the store
proved oh so opportune,
until the summer arrived when
they’d think they spoke too soon.

Word had somehow gotten out bout
Claire’s magical ice cream,
now just beyond the cobbled roads,
a lineup of cars streamed.

Once the young-folks had ice cream they
tramped cross the sandy shore,
skipped along the cobblestone streets
in groups of twos and fours.

We need to barricade the road,
the townsfolk came to vote.
The move proved itself pointless when
young-folks arrived by boat.

To make the perfect quiet town,
the town had spent so long,
now the poor townsfolk had to stay
in with their curtains drawn.

They tried to get on with their lives,
pies kept them all busy,
the smell of fruit and cinnamon
rose from every chimney.

The young-folks knocked on all their doors,
drawn there by the sweet smell,
asking if delicious pies the
town was willing to sell.

At first the townsfolk had to laugh,
finding young-folks funny.
What would a self-sufficient town
do with silly money?

These young folks offered to mow lawns
or pull out garden weeds,
for just one slice of pie they would
do any chore or deed.

In these young-folks clear love of pie,
the townsfolk could relate,
charmed by their young visitors they
pulled out the serving plates.

Besides pie the townsfolk served the
wisdom they’d acquired,
tips on life and baking that had
their guests feeling inspired.

All the townsfolk and young-folks had
become fantastic friends,
when time for the Monday supper,
hundreds asked to attend.

The young-folks were the ones who cooked,
cooked lobster and rich sides,
equipped with townsfolk baking tips,
they also made the pies.

The task they’d performed overnight
was by far best of all,
with new wood beams, nails and bright paint
they’d redone the town hall.

Stunned townsfolk asked who provided
the wood and paint details,
never found out it was Claire, who
paid with her ice cream sales.

That evening the town hall was packed,
and as the fiddlers played,
the young-folks served the food and pies
they’d all that Monday made.

The fiddlers did their best to
keep the party going,
but while all the young folks danced round
the townsfolk were slowing.

The young approached their old friends and
lifted them to their feet,
though there was much pie and ice cream,
this moment was most sweet.

As the fiddler's played faster,
the dancers had a riot,
sounds of music and laughter filled
a town that once was quiet.