The metal fencing by the station
Cuts the glaring sun in my eyes as I run
Into piercing shards of light,
Breaking my vision down
Into scattered memories of past years.
I am racing through a flickering movie reel
Of my childhood
Tucked in the furthest corners
Of my peripheral vision,
Presented in layers of thick paint
Like a printing press,
Always covering up,
Moving on to the next.
Between scene breaks I see green,
Endless parks and vast stretches
Of oily grass
Pinched between finger and thumb
As we ran our hands through
The fickle years.
Skateboards on library roofs
And broken windows,
Decks of cards passing
As we ran across the canal locks
Between gaps in judgement,
A flame finds idle hands.
My temples still begin to sting
When I smell that dirty weed smell
In between thoughts and places
And the movie reel begins rolling again
Right there in the corner.
The village is quieter these days,
And tidier, and pleasant,
No more broken faces by roadsides
And wing mirrors in drains,
The grass grows back a little more spritely,
And my mum looks through the curtains
But my friends have all gone and moved away,
And I am unfamiliar with the bends
The river decides to take
And the beds it interrupts,
No longer ours.
So I continue to run around the edges
Of the village we all once knew
And find the light that glistens
Between the gaps in the darkness,
Like Kafka talked about
In his notes from a room
In a village somewhere else.
It is in these connections
That the pictures flicker back to life,
Like a black and white movie,
Setting our stories in motion
And we are always alive here
Somewhere in the corner
Of my minds eye.