Like Brigadoon,

I'll return yearly.

To see old friends

that never grow but always age.

Time passing fades memory.



But when I turn off the M50

down the rat run

by the shops that we hid behind for a smoke,

nostalgia grips.

The Old Road - bested by a bypass

bringing Saturday shoppers to their Mecca -

lies as it always has:

small potholes and loosened chips.

Forgotten, but in a good way.



The pristine flowerbeds

void of rosebuds

but filled with cigarette butts

at this time of year.

Yet, still kept, looked after.



And a home

scented by hot-tottied cloves,

pined needles

seeking shelter

amongst the red and gold

and good reason to believe it’s here -

with candles adorning windows,

a sign of compassionate welcome.

At least at this one time every year.