Draft of a poem about not being born somewhere else
In the town where I was nearly born,
elevated lines converge
towards a life I almost led –
here reflected back by silvered blocks,
the windows of an engine shed.
Its proximity to airports drew them,
Mum and Dad, settling down,
at their age, with a child,
but with an eye to taking,
if needs be, quick and easy flight.
As it happens, they went elsewhere,
and these morning streets
with bus stops, bins, barked trees
and overcast but promising sky
are neither more nor less familiar.
In transit and transition,
there is no sense of coming back,
of making a return, accounting
for how I’d see things differently
had they not invested,
called somewhere home,
further west along the track.
Tom Phillips 2013