I had a very kind donation of £20 towards my Acorns to Oaks Poetry on Demand Challenge. This came from Yusuf, who requested a poem about Autumn and, although this might not be quite that, it’s my own take on Autumn as viewed through a wander around my old hometown, poking around memories and looking at the way things have changed. Hope you like it.
A Wall Around the Memories
As summer ends, what will autumn bring?
I return to the place where I grew in Spring.
A wall around my school that’s gone,
Just solid stones that still live on.
Gateway overgrown that denies you entry,
And hides the past, a dutiful sentry.
Sword dancers and Easter bonnets and climbing round the walls,
Stories and warm milk, Summer fairs with games and stalls.
The walls are there to mark the place,
But nothing’s left of its true face.
Are all my memories just stuck behind stone,
The truth inside never to be known?
Only what was felt, grainy images decaying,
And the resolute walls staying, staying.
High, strong stone around my memory remains,
And from the past, there are few refrains,
Much has changed though faint outlines are seen,
Of what was once that has changed between.
Grass verges are gone outside houses on my street,
Replaced with paving to make all seem neat.
Fish man on the corner’s no longer there,
With the clouds of wasps that hung by his fare,
Shrunken streets that were once so long,
A model of memory, every piece so strong,
Screeching brakes of my bike as down the hill I’d tear,
Drew a man from his house to rage and swear,
Scare my young self home as fast as I could ride,
So Mum could charge off; give a piece of her mind,
Crowded terraces march up and down
Where once I did a paper round,
Sunday’s heavy news abused my shoulder,
But relief, the bag lightened as the task grew older.
My house still stands, childhood hidden within,
Though the home over years has shed its skin,
No bird table, no tall silver birch so slender,
No holly bushes in unkempt splendour,
The foot of the hill marked by a triangle of green,
Where they came for me and by others seen,
Just boys, young and lost in their cruel games,
For which, years later, still burn the flames,
Of rage and hurt shared with no-one,
So that the pain just lingered on and on,
Then through the park where I often played,
Where trees grow tall and much has stayed,
The train into town on carriages weathered,
Were once so new but to decay they’re tethered,
Door trims stained and fabric worn,
On these same tracks to freedom I was borne,
To beautiful picture houses of a bygone age,
That now are lost to progress beige,
The theatre too, each tall, stone column,
Now grows moss-strewn and solemn.
Finally, I plunge into the Dene,
Where all’s alive in calm and peace and green,
Where conkers with my dad I’d hunt,
Muddied welly boots and steep slopes to confront,
Why did I not see in Spring,
The fresh-breathed solace this place could bring?
For while all else is broken and routed,
Boundless nature here has ever sprouted.
Fallen trees, weathered stone slick from waters of the Burn,
Water so still, like glass, every inch of progress long to earn.
And though this place time too will contort,
In me, from now, within walls of memory it is caught.
Thanks for reading. Hope you liked that. I might come back to it in a few months and tweak certain bits but as a first draft I’m quite happy.Here’s the link to the fundraiser…
And here’s me on YouTube performing it.
All the best,
Richard
The Ardenna Crossing 