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.