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?
-
Author:
Kevin Hulme (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 5th, 2026 19:05
- Comment from author about the poem: Happy Memories of that Childhood Home.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: Teddy.15
Offline)
Comments7
These memories are surreal and seem metaphoric in their shadows. Nicely written
Thank you. It was a House made of Stones not Brick. Maybe that's why it had to go.
Thank you for Reading.
You are most welcome
"For Progress has no thought for the Victorian Aesthetic."
A deep truth embodied there when 'progress' means the substitution of a multi story car park or tower block.
Your formative experiences of early life embedded in those walls now must reside only in your memory.
A write I understand perfectly.
Thank you. I only have one Photo of the House, It's with my Grandfather standing in the Yard.
Came across it a few years back.
The rest resides in the Memory.
Thank you for Reading.
I too used to be able to drive passed the old home and familiar childhood haunts but now most of these have been redeveloped and rezoned even. Atopic close to heart. Thanks, Kevin 🙏🏻🕊️
Thank you. The rest of the Street is still standing, but that being an Old House and the one next door: they had to go.
Thank you for Reading.
Most welcome, dear Kevin 🙏🏻🕊️
very beautifully written
Thank you. Happy you liked it.
Home is underrated unnecessary place to put one’s head of refuge for peace shelter from storm nicely written
Just so. Never been keen on Free Verse, but give it a whirl every now and then.
Wrote this with the Voice of Phillip Larkin in my head. Thank you.
You are most welcome Kevin
Nostalgia laced with loss—memory standing where bricks once held a life.
The grit of time’s erasure hits hard, yet the ghosts still breathe between the lines.
Thank you. And for Reading.
This is beautiful, may I be bold to ask where was your home dear Kevin? 🌹
In the North East of England. Newcastle.
Nice.
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