One of my favourite poems of mine, about the places I have lived.

Let me tell you where I’m from.
First the estate with squares of houses.
Where the neighbours bricks reflected in our windows.
Where girls played football on the car park,
and the boys played football on the green.
Where the old man tended his roses,
while the children threw their Frisbee’s and balls.
And none got them back, their Frisbee’s or balls;
if they touched his roses.
A procession of buildings all the same height and shape
strung out into the horizon like building blocks.
Long weekends full of walks in the countryside
built space in between the claustrophobic people,
And where my family were just as near as strangers.

Second the village with fields surrounding.
Where there were long roads of old, withered houses.
Tracks from horses and tractors ran along through the village.
Where the misty morning surrounded us and light,
didn’t come till long after breakfast was finished.
Where barn owls flew past like spectres,
Patrolling the morning dew laced fields.
Saturday mornings brought trips to the farm,
duck eggs, chicken eggs and potatoes.
When summer came the swallows skimmed
like bullets, the surface of the river.
Where sunsets and lightening storms where framed
by the wide window in my mother and fathers room.
Where rabbits silently ruled the hedges and the gardens.
And where the views were welcoming but the people were not.

Third the city, where the sirens sing.
Where the trees stand like reminders of green places.
Where communities dissolve into nothingness,
and people are scared to talk to one another.
Where the humid stuffed bars stand in a haze of alcohol.
When winter comes streets freeze in time,
like little towns in a snow globe.
Black cats prowl the cut-through’s and tenfoot’s,
and clear nights full of stars are highly sought;
so you can look up and know you’re not alone.
Summer days bring cider, sunglasses and barbecues.
And loud cars hum and vibrate with music down my street.
Where I sit and watch passers by lighting cigarettes or stealing bikes,
and where Mondays, prick and sting like an avenging wasp.


4 thoughts on “”

  1. I Can’t Stop reading your Poems… All of them are fabulous.! The reality is picturised perfectly in each one of them.! LOVELY ! Check Out my blog too. Hope you’ll like it.

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