All of us have a favourite place; Our usual haunt, a same old spot. A place where we walk to with snow underfoot, Or crunching leaves, or the ground baked and hot My favourite place
My favourite place, the wood close by Cast long dark shadows, a place of calm. Forever untouched, one of life’s constants It would change with the seasons but suffer no harm
In the years since I left there My life has changed But this favourite place Is etched on my brain I can trace every step as though it were yesterday A road often travelled through sun, wind and rain.
Many years later, and many years older With eyes lined with age and hair thinned and grey A chance happening brought me to this place A return to the area for a few days away.
Of course, my thought turned to the woodland With the filtered light through the sycamore trees. I laced up my boots and retraced my steps, My silver hair jostled in the cool Autumn breeze.
But the woodland, on paper, should have been here; Right before me, just where I stood. But the noise was different – the hum of traffic. No tuneful birdsong, nor the sounds of the wood.
Occasional trees, scattered before me, Adorned the gardens, with neatly trimmed lawns. The woodland had perished; felled, sliced, forgotten. In place, a sea of new housing was born.
My favourite place, that same old spot Echoed and clattered beneath my feet And the image that stuck in my mind like an axe Was the gleaming new road sign of ‘Sycamore street’ M F Cowan See www.poemsforgeography.blogspot.com for more