when I consider this place
a telling realization dawns,
perhaps what I’m really looking for
isn’t set deep in the buildings here after all,
of course, the old ones, the really
old ironstone local landmarks
church, obelisk, hall, school, the inn,
do breathe their own imposing presence,
sharing an under-sung self-satisfied smirk
like knowing pensioners, who no longer
need to earn their living,
having done their time, clocked-off
still standing, confidently resolute,
still a living part of this place,
as I walk, I pat their warm worn stones in the
way I stroked the back of my grandfather’s hand
with a love, a respect, a given loyalty
each tap gently counting-out my blessings
with no need for extravagant embraces,
no, it’s not the buildings but the faces,
the voices, the particular dialect that
once defined one village from another
none more than two miles apart,
I see old eyes briefly brighten sharply
like blown embers, rekindling a hearth
memories flicker, chuckles become flames
and for that one hour we are young again.
*
© Graham R Sherwood 04/22
grahamrichardsherwood.co.uk 