The Home in which I Bawled into the World,
Was demolished along with \'Give Peace a Chance\' at the end of the 1960s.
The Ghost my Sister glimpsed, no doubt moved on,
Took the hint as the great Ball Smashed through the Walls,
The absorption of breath reduced to Rubble,
For Progress has no thought for the Victorian Aesthetic.
Here - dreams of Childhood were Fermented,
Life\'s long Corridor of years stretched out ahead,
A Yellow Brick Road of dizzying possibilities:
\'And - which is more- you\'ll be a Man, my Son!\'
And with it the Weight of existence.
Then- and only then- that Home was my Womb,
I felt safe as no time before or since,
All Points of the Compass being four Walls,
The North, East, South, West of the growing Boy,
Beyond the gate: \'Here be Dragons\'.
Now, only Grass bordered by a Weathered fence,
Discarded litter, and the Calling Card of the Seasons.
No hint of the Family dramas, Happy or Sad,
Cheers for England in 66, \'Yeah Yeah Yeahs\' and Ball games in the Yard.
Maybe at Night when all is still,
Our Voices may be heard within the Breeze.
Who knows?