I flit back there occasionally,
like a moth to a flame
in chaotic unplanned visits
with scant regularity,
everywhere looks older, crumbling
unsteady, as are the people I once knew
their youth once fresh,
now like the milk I once delivered
as a lad, turned sour,
the streets too seem narrower,
shorter, dirtier, choked
by poorly parked cars
half on, half off the kerb,
sadly there’s no longer the smells either
of leather, paraffin, bonfires, fags, faggots
that bookended my childhood,
but something does remain, intact
a friendly wistful cynicism,
a self-mocking realism
that keeps you in your place
but overall, the look
the look that’s never left me
the look that tells others
this is where I came from.
*
© Graham R Sherwood 01/22
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 