When we found our way back to what used to be our home

 

lanes still strolled from the church,

mud and weeds softening their sides, water still collecting in the ruts

that dawdled by the river, lugging that blue sky

clouds like workers carrying a new window

            it was all still the same

 

the sign over the shop on the corner still said

‘milk and bread’, urns were still stacked on the side

there was still a little chair by the entrance

where the owner could sit when things were quiet

while flies dozed on the window ledge

they could even have been the same flies

 

in a yard somewhere, as always a child was yelling

whether in play or anger, until cut off

by an angry word from inside, admonished by

the silence that followed, the silence of a whole village listening

            it was all still the same

 

there was still copperplate in chalk on the blackboard

at the school, we could still find our initials

carved into the desk tops that our teachers occasionally used

to knock some facts into us

            amazing how it was all still the same

 

and the fence still leaned as if to catch

a passer-by’s gossip; and smiled at what it heard

through its missing palings

            and that was still the same, too

 

and our house was still there, I recognised its stucco façade

untouched, the parlour at the front

as if we could still have just walked in the front door

and climbed the narrow stairs up to the bedrooms

 

from where a stranger leaned out over the rug she was beating

and shouted ‘Bugger off!’

at us, and then again as we looked up, startled

‘Bugger off back to where you came from!’

slammed the window down hard

 

            and the village went all quiet again

​

Rochford Street Review, August 2024