Angela Porter
My Home Place
The tree, a wall and bush here cram and squash.
By weed pulled, buckled, old skinned insect waters.
And drifting swans and coloured drakes that splash.
The fishermen wait by rim of maggot quarters.
I am walking past a pram, it squeals and talks.
And water tumbling, spewing, stones green flow.
The leaves are dragging, racing, whilst it balks.
And the stream, then bridge, towards a log laid low.
And there I find myself in open field.
The crowded daisies and man-made white lines.
And peppered with the posts of wild gulls' shield.
I began to search for feathers for some finds.
This is my home of memories of child-hood.
A place where dreams are now understood.
Page(s) 19
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