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Wrexham Central/Wrecsam Canolog
by Richard VinceThe place I do not remember is
No longer there to be rediscovered;
My fleeting visit is now a votive
Offering buried beneath concrete.
Towns are strung like beads
Along the border, their unfamiliar
Names a hymn to the old country
From which the smallest part of me
Grew, but which has always
Loomed large in my heart.
What do people do in such
Small worlds? Where can they go
When the only way is across
The grain? Perhaps I forget
How small my world is when
Everything I need is close at hand.
The gap in my memory is small,
But has been in need of filling
For too many years, like a wound
That has stubbornly refused
To heal. It is another one for
The reclaim pile, more memories
That need to be displaced
By happier ones.
Soon I must make the trip from
Somewhere to almost somewhere else,
And fill my adult eyes with
All that my younger self
Failed to take in.
My mission is one of rediscovery,
Not only of unfamiliar country,
But of that old ability to see
The beauty in the prosaic,
The extraordinary in the everyday;
Shining the light of the present
Into the shadows of the past.
05/27/2019 Posted on 05/27/2019
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Glenn Currier on 05/30/19 at 12:51 PM Richard, I Googled the title and it was fascinating reading the Wikipedia entry with pictures of the old and new stations. Your poem so beautifully written, traces the confluence of the past and the present. I especially like that last stanza. Poetry is one of the things that helps me transform the prosaic into something worth noticing and reflecting on. As I grow older, it seems I can see the ordinary or the past in a new light and to cherish it. Thank you sir. |
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