Home Town (Poetry)

Don't be tempted to return to those old streets you knew -
by now it's sure developers have rearranged the view -
instead of those familiar sights, all part of childhood's scene,
the playing field's a business park without a trace of green.

The cinema's a bingo hall, the scout hut's not in use
and pencilled in for pulling down (they don't need much excuse),
the infant school's an empty shell, abandoned, pupils bused
ten miles away, while bike sheds lean, their stands turned brown with rust.

The tree you gathered conkers from, the stream you used to fish,
have disappeared - dumb victims of the council's avarice
and that which fills the space is just an architect's wet dream -
a shopping mall and sports hall with an Asda inbetween.

The pub's long been demolished, the railway station's shut -
the branch line made no profit so the service has been cut,
weeds grow by the sleepers, litter clogs the rails
and over all an atmosphere of sad defeat prevails.

The bulldozer has done its worst, the planners had their say -
ignored petitions - those who could packed up and moved away -
the vision has materialized in showy glass and stone
but for some this soulless place no longer feels like home.

They paid lip service to the rules, preserved what must be kept,
but like a bombing raid they came, with no discretion swept
away the character and charm that history bequeathed
and built another office block with parking underneath.

So, goodbye bramble thicket, hedge and wasteland, poppy-strewn,
hello to brick-box houses crammed in tight to fit the room -
there's washing hung where blossom used to fling its busy snow,
the copse is trashed - no bluebells where the bypass plans to go.

The name upon the map remains exactly as before
but visiting is best by means of memory's bright door -
don't be tempted to go back, it will not be the same -
you'll search the streets you thought you knew
but all you'll find is change.