A Sense of Sepia

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

I was born in Gillingham (Kent) UK. 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 a mixture of fondness and regret. 

Whatever, I still experience a thrill whenever I travel on the railway line that crosses the river Medway and gives me a glimpse of Rochester castle and cathedral before passing through Chatham and alongside what used to be my old secondary school before arriving at Gillingham station. 

The last time I stood outside my old home in Priestfield Road (also home to Gillingham Football Club) so many shouting, laughing, happy (and unhappy) ghosts came to play hide-and-seek with me that it was like being transported back in time…

Oh, the wonder (and pitfalls) of childhood! How well I wonder, for any of us, do they measure up against the wonders and pitfalls of adult life?  Whatever, it occurred to me as I stood there, confronting my past, that I am but as I am, and all that I am (or will ever be) is the sum of my ghosts. Is it the same for everyone, I wonder…?

A SENSE OF SEPIA 

Confronting the house

where I was born,

so much older now, sadder

(world weary like me);

a poor copy of memory’s

bright front door,

opening up shadowy corners

of the mind

Quite alone in the road

I used to play,

all but empty now, quieter

(time-trodden, like me);

a poor copy of hide-and-seek

and go-karts sure

to bring life to laughter lines

on the brow

Football stadium, home

to comic strip heroes,

looks different now, better

preserved than me

where once shabby red fencing

would sneak me in

to get up a sweat for sandmen

in muddy shorts

Here it was, I would dream

about growing up,

doing things, going places,

being someone else;

a livelier, kinder, inspiration

to mind, body and spirit

than this poor copy preserved

in shades of sepia

Ah, but less of this standing

on time’s misty shore,

letting its fast, outgoing tide

get the better of me …

Rather, I shall bid my ghosts

a fond farewell,

let the Here and Now count

and colour me in

Copyright R. N. Taber (2015)