A poem of place.

The old suburb sits there still, seeming to me both the same and different, jarring my memory in contrast to my current reality
(notwithstanding whatever we mean by reality,) yet the feeling still exists
in me, a duality of time and place swirling in eddies in my memory’s stream.

Sidewalks seem the same, concrete cracked deeper perhaps and weeds
more tenacious expanding through the pavements’ path
as distinct from the desperate weeds of the past, clinging on
through the blasting heat of summer and sudden winter storms drenching’s all this and I’m only ten paces into my old suburb.

Trees have grown distinctly larger, throwing shade over those paves
lending a more cultured tone, as indeed many people here
have brought their vibrancy and resilience to weary streets
that now move to welcome many different feet, in my old suburb.

I strive on to my assignation; my oldest friend is waiting or perhaps
on his way down familiar roads to meet and enjoy the cuisine
that was unseen when we grew up here, now we look to dine
in fine style in chrome seats, the smile that greets us is sincere,
he is glad to be here and see us, in my old suburb.

Chris
Adelaide 2025