Back Number

Each time I come to the village, 

I try to slip in on a different route

as if to catch the old place off guard.

My favourite gate is via the station,

now demolished, the bridge modernised,

over the stickleback heaven brook of my youth, 

with a nod to an old friend’s quaint old cottage

remembering the damp chill 

of the tiny circular stone stairs.

Now it’s a pristine grotesque domain

locked away from local eyes.

I always slow for the cemetery,

uttering ‘hello mother’

through my guilty eyes

making promises I know I won’t keep,

pondering if I’ll ever have the nerve to return.

The old scout hut has gone, the paddock,

the old school too come to think of it,

an asphalt playground turned to lawn.

I never stroked a four on the cricket square

but still feel myself smarting

at being one number off

an autographed bat in the raffle

as a child, 

ironically at the time

my father seemed more disappointed than I.

Senses gather quickly as I turn into Church St,

past the elevated old school and The Limes,

a slalom of parked cars, unknown in my day,

strangle the road, the High St is the same.

The old bottom-end appears to sigh

as I wriggle between its buildings,

a postcard comic-strip of my childhood

sliding by as if cranked by a handle,

my element of surprise having faded.

*

© Graham Sherwood 10/2019