Coming Home

Coming Home

Two decades and more,
A long trip away,
Measured in other generations,
Spanning continents.
Measured in the fleeting wish to forget.

One day childhood’s streets unfold,
Mapping hazed recall
Memories just misplaced,
Shifted just off centre,
Untouchable even as you reach.

Recall or memory,
It matters not,
All refracted,
Distorted by the watered perception of others,
Lost in prescribed remembrance.

And remembrance owns rituals,
So needed,
In an unnecessary way,
Needed by those who can forget,
Unnecessary for those cursed.

I meet an old name,
And they stare through me,
Seeing who I was,
And speaking in tongues,
Torn from yesteryear.

I avoid old names,
And they evade my history,
Remembering ?
Distant voices
Discarded in irrelevance.

My sight shimmers,
Seeing all remembered
Yet abstracted by linear fact,
Shimmering sight,
Just that fraction blurred.

My eyes are different you see,
Not better,
Just not like yours,
Unlike most
My eyes see beyond a pale.

Some have my eyes,
We know when we meet,
We see reflection in dark glass,
We see flame in shadow,
See all that is gone.

They say strange things,
‘You have changed’ is one,
Then they seem shocked
At my muted reply,
‘hope so, I am alive’.

You don’t understand ,
they tell me,
and I think within secret smiles,
oh I comprehend,
but you just don’t fucking know.

I am home,
Yet somewhere in my past,
I stand among others,
More real in absentia,
In memory than my Now.

I returned to streets,
To people,
To welcomes strained in openness,
Herniated in rigid embraces
And stoic knowing nods.

Those Knowing nods abound,
Proof of their nod to knowing,
Reinforced by prosthetic smiles,
Their teeth, smiling
Like any condescending raptor.

I came home,
After nigh on thirty years,
From moments they see as false,
From eternity they see as brief,
From and to ignorant ‘erehwon’.

So with my map,
Folded neat and stowed,
Safe in open hiding,
My memories like that one sacred bag,
Remain unpacked, ready.

That one small bag,
My legacy,
Awaiting my bequest,
My gifting,
Perhaps to me.

Two decades and more,
Might remain of my allotment,
Time spent in knowing,
No more sweetly sentient moment remains,
Than that, ecstasy, when sentience seemed lost.