I have no memory of arriving
only a blur of night stations,
hissing steam-trains
all the clanking distance
between my home in the north
and this rainy town.
Chorlton-cum-Hardy seemed,
from the kitchen,
to be the overshadowed garden
where I played beneath
a tennis court’s sky-high fence,
a tiny child overshadowed
by city stone.
© BH, 2024
This was the first quatrains of what later became a series of poem-memories of London as I experienced it over the years.
My first step into England was when I was about four. A jumble of impressions, no more. I know I went to the zoo but I only remember that because of photos I still have. Otherwise, I can only actually recall the strange jumbled train journey.
No comments:
Post a Comment