I remember the old reservoir.
The one we used to take to
walking around in the hedonic
aeon that was our youth.
I’m still young.
I’m young but the years have
aged the path that took us back to there,
grown over in thistle, thicket and thorn.
It’s cracked, with infant pools
of rainwater filling the potholes;
man-made, still habitats.
A mimicry of their mother,
water-filled basin of breadth
and no brine.
Only on those blue-moon occasions,
with cynical tongues and carved faces
do we still cross those few paths
that remain.
I’ve learnt now to accept my loss.
Dear Draycote, pool of life,
circular route and void of time,
I can dream of your return
into my days, but awake
to the sight of my long-gone friends
and all they once were.
I cannot hope to cross your path
in the way that we once did.
For we used to walk in circles,
and now that circle is complete.
So we shall live our separate lives,
pin badges, names, onto our *******
thin ribbons to bind our fates.
But what, my life, do I call my friends
that now only frequent my mind?
Oh how do I catch up with them,
after falling so far behind?
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
I remember the old reservoir.
The one we used to take to
walking around in the hedonic
aeon that was our youth.
I’m still young.
I’m young but the years have
aged the path that took us back to there,
grown over in thistle, thicket and thorn.
It’s cracked, with infant pools
of rainwater filling the potholes;
man-made, still habitats.
A mimicry of their mother,
water-filled basin of breadth
and no brine.
Only on those blue-moon occasions,
with cynical tongues and carved faces
do we still cross those few paths
that remain.
I’ve learnt now to accept my loss.
Dear Draycote, pool of life,
circular route and void of time,
I can dream of your return
into my days, but awake
to the sight of my long-gone friends
and all they once were.
I cannot hope to cross your path
in the way that we once did.
For we used to walk in circles,
and now that circle is complete.
So we shall live our separate lives,
pin badges, names, onto our *******
thin ribbons to bind our fates.
But what, my life, do I call my friends
that now only frequent my mind?
Oh how do I catch up with them,
after falling so far behind?
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/9/94/Draycote_Water.jpg
This is what inspired me. It's a reservoir in my hometown with a lot of memories attached to it. In my state of slight homesickness, my mind is called to this place and all of the hazy life events I can recall occurring here. Everything seemed so careless and carefree in this place and now that I have moved away to live my own life, I feel that this place is now nothing more than an archive of my past. I used to have a part-time job at the age of 16 as a carer for my autistic cousin and we'd often come here for a long walk. I used to meet my old girlfriend here for long strolls, picnics and bike rides. With my friends, we used to have races around the circuit and then there were the annual fundraisers we did here - I once rode around it twelve times, which is around 60 miles. There were also several times that I would come here alone - to escape people, to escape troubles and sometimes even to escape myself. How strange it seems now, that I longed to get away from the noise of my hometown, when it seems so small and so quiet whenever I return there from the city.
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