In a field off
Hungerford Road back
in the 1950’s Mum
almost lost an arm
after being thrown by her horse
and trampled.
Every path I take in
this town runs headlong
into one story or another.
I got away in the 90’s
just so I could turn
down a street and hear
nothing from memory.
I return only to visit
the cemetery where
my ancestors lean on
their gravestones.
We exchange kisses
then I pick up the
trail of red twine that leads me
homeward.
The solid mass of the Earth
beneath my feet stops me
from becoming a ghost.
Curvaceous new roads look
painted on
virgin as just fallen snow.
I ache to walk along them.
I’m getting soft, forgiving
a mourned town for
being less than perfect.
