So we've moved out of the years.
I am finally back upstream
and, but for their holiday grins
on every bookcase, the boys
were never born, it was a dream.
Here is where my past begins
in a garret beside a bridge,
woken by birds pecking moss
from the dark. The river's clear.
It will not turn to sludge
till it reaches you and the mess
of streets I hated, endured
only because you were there.
My windows are full of leaves.
There are mountains in my skylight.
Perhaps you would like it here.
It is the same river—it moves,
perhaps, towards the same light.
Poetry Wales Autumn 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Paul Henry
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission