Going Home

(Inspired by Travels with Charlie, John Steinbeck).

Why this ache to return?
this was home when you lived here
were born here,
old friends you seek
are now truly old
not the blood brothers you once knew,
played with, laughed with, cried with,
died for.


Walks seemed longer then
trees taller,
roads safer,
days warmer
now innocence is nowhere to be found.


Girlfriends all gone away, taken as wives,
old adversaries some have died
or now look benign as you.
Why take them for a drink
old warriors now seeing sense,
of those stupid teenage vendettas,
let dogs lie.


Console yourself with landmarks
the ironstone church, ruined folly
Dick Turpin’s obelisk, steadfast,
now seated cheek by jowl amongst plastic flats.


So go,
sit on the deserted cricket square
let wickets tumble with your memories,
then leave,
you shouldn’t have returned,
you left for a better life
outside, somewhere else
why don’t you understand
You don’t belong here?






© Graham Sherwood 05/2015