Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

I left the door open, but tried not to look back.
Gravel crunched like rock salt,
shifting under my heels.
I thought it was autumn
but horsechestnuts in the park were in flower
and brown lawn dried to the bone.
People sat on the grass and ate ice cream,
a van played Greensleeves on the far side of a lake.
It was not too late, never too late to return.

I should have brought a hat, the sun is blinding.
How do waterfowl stand it out there,
bobbing on pollen clouded soup?
I had some bread, but now it’s gone,
just crumbs in the seam of my pocket,
fluff and nonsense I can’t empty out.
Geese stretch out their heads to hiss,
snake tongues quivering in ochre beaks.

I keep walking, because there is nothing else to do,
I thought about sitting on a bench to read a book,
but my bag was empty.
I must not have brought anything with me after all.
I can see in my head: book, money, keys
all in a neat pile on a table, waiting for me to go back.

I could go to the pavilion, there was a sign:
I follow an underpass by the river
with the furniture of backwaters: a submerged sofa,
a shopping trolley, an old pesticide drum,
and just beyond, a half built swan’s nest,
a mound of grass and reeds yellowing in the sun.

There seem to be so many paths
hedged in with decorative borders.
It’s hard to see which is the way, if there is a right way.
Maybe they all lead to the same place by different routes.
Maybe they all go back the way we’ve already come.
An aeroplane passes over so high you can’t hear it.
It leaves a vapour trail like an arrow.
If it’s too late now to go back, I’ll have to go on.