Poynton
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Sheila Hamilton
Poynton
Last time I went, it had shrunk.
Park Lane had lost its steepness.
St. George's Church was just
a church, no longer God's grey finger
pointing straight to Heaven.
They'd even dared to change my places,
shutting the chippy, erasing
the shop where I bought Dandelion
and Burdock in the long days of August.
But Coppice Lane still had its coppice,
and the Library was still hanging onto
its books. The school belonged to someone else
now, someone who couldn't remember the bull
that grazed the playing-fields one whole morning
in 1973. Or the names of the mice in Infant One.
Where are your roots ? I'm sometimes asked.
Not easy to answer but I say Poynton, Cheshire.
The roots were torn up a long time ago
but you might find something.
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