Place Of Birth (Poetry)

It was a nice town once — I’m sure of it
and when people asked back then I didn’t hesitate
or pull a face — admit regret or let
a certain tone of voice taint the name.

Now I’m not keen to claim I am a daughter and
whilst not exactly ashamed of the fact
not proud either — it’s not the place it was
and I’m conscious of a lack of pride
in acknowledging it even as my home.

In truth it has become a town I want someday
to get away from — leave far behind —
I’ve not felt that I belonged here
for oh so many years...

It’s sad to feel the old connections go —
and it’s not just friends who die
it’s buildings too — schools and churches —
until all the familiar landmarks have fallen
and I cannot identify
streets and shops with the playground of my youth.

It’s grown — and grown ugly — disproportionate —
so pretentious its whole character has changed
and there is a falseness of appearance —
something for the visitors that will not fool
the old inhabitants who grieve for things irreplaceable —
touchstones they can no longer find —
all swept away in someone else’s scheme for progress.

Invaded inch by inch — tradition trampled
under the heels of foreigners — true locals
rare as dodos with small if any chance
of true survival here — the choice
is move away — escape the slow-creeping sly
cultural suffocation or
dig in and wait to die.