Long remembered places intrude, unbidden
slivers of past. We were then, we are now.
Echoed shadows, from the places of my life,
drawn, underscored.
They come.

On the shore, up to the hill, walking.
Too young for drink, bored, life constricted
by an unwritten code of “thou shalt not.”
Dark roads I wondered for its own sake.
To kill an hour.

Off from a new estate, walking a path consumed,
in thought. When I looked up, and saw
the pace imagined. The realisation,
that this was real, this was here, now.
Shocked to the core.
I shed my old skin.

In a dark old room, on a bust sofa bed,
a shabby mansion, reading Doyle.
Bruised knuckles after a day fighting rock,
and myself. The peat fire, that scent alone,
brings me back there.

Pordenack, in the rain, a cave, close warm.
Scuttling up the guts of the rock,
finding a secret place to store the ashes of my life.
Maybe to return there, to remain there.
Sometime home of a sort.

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