There is a quiet place
on the outskirts of the village
from which you can spy
all the landmarks of your life.
The school you didn’t attend;
the fields of buttercups
through which we wouldn’t roam;
Old Windmill Hill, up which
I don’t see you running with a kite;
and over the brow, our home
where you never grew up.
The church where you weren’t
Christened, but instead a short
service brought you here to rest
locked in your six weeks
of what might have been,
where I return from time to time
to find out how you’re doing.
John H Davies
23rd May 2011
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