Bottom End

Walk as far as the bend in the road
but resist the urge to look 
to the unseen
that will entice you.
Turn, look back
where your feet have trodden,
where trembling fingers
have brushed the warmth
of the ancient ironstone wall,
the music of your childhood
still echoing through its russet cracks.
The girl you loved and left
still sits watching
as you gather churchyard conkers
beneath the ha-ha,
her gingham frock weighed heavy
with polished fruit.
Listen for the timeless clop
of the milkman’s dray,
the raw clank and steamy bluster
of the ore tender
proudly crossing the ungated lane,
the smell of leather, the clicker’s whistle.
Everything is still here
rest assured,
the more the need to see
the less is hidden,
just turn before the road bends.

© Graham Sherwood 02/2017