Home Thoughts

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