the group grows
now seven from three
a cat’s cradle of memories
shuttling to-and-fro, as
we pass old haunts, they slide by
like weathered pantomime scenery,
there’s no leader, just
whoever’s at the front
occasionally stopping hesitantly
like lost children
waiting for direction,
decisions are made on the hoof
close to five hundred years
of collective reminiscences
tumbling chaotically from
wrinkled lips and dampened eyes,
old homes demolished
gardens become car parks
small yards and alleys narrower than
the space between our failing ears,
we randomly remember
old friends and some villains too
now all asleep up Station Rd,
young boys, became men, then old men
innocently reaching back
looking for something
that’s no longer there.
*
© Graham Sherwood 10/21
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 