Here’s another new poem today. I haven’t been well, and what
better way to ruse above illness than appealing to The Muse for some creative
distraction? [Yes, sometimes I resort to
day-time TV, but try to resist...]
I was born at an address in Priestfield Road, Gillingham, Kent
(UK). It is a dead-end road, at the top
of which is Gillingham F. C. stadium. [Come
on, up the Gills...!] It was a great, safe place to play for us kids and
sneaking into the football ground through a gap in the fence was always a treat
as well as something of a challenge.
Although I rarely return to Gillingham, it is never far away from my
thoughts, especially as I grow old(er) and find myself looking back on my
childhood with fondness albeit probably through rose tinted spectacles.
Oh, but I still experience a thrill whenever I travel on the railway line that crosses the river Medway and hives me a glimpse of Rochester castle and cathedral, passes through Chatham and passes my old school before arriving at Gillingham station.
A
SENSE OF SEPIA
There
is the house
where
I was born;
it
looks older now, weary now,
like
me;
a
poor copy of the house
where
I was born,
locked
inside me now, waiting
for
me...
There
is the road
I
used to play;
it
feels empty now, lonely now,
like
me;
a
poor copy of the road
I
used to play,
gone
for halcyon days, calling
to
me...
There
is the home
of
the Gills F. C;
it
looks different now, better
than
me;
a
poor copy of the stadium
I’d
sneak inside
to
be hypnotised by legs chasing
a
ball
Here,
I used to dream
about
growing up,
doing
things and going places
I
never would;
so
whatever happened
to
growing up
the
way I always meant to do,
but
never did?
Copyright R. N.
Taber 2012
No comments:
Post a Comment