there and back again

There and back again

Mam walked with me to her brothers

across the wasteland 

where the works had been;

where their lives lay in the mortar

between the blue bricks, fallen now;

and the railway’s rusty rails that curved

and disappeared under a blank door/fence. 

How strange is that? I always thought.

And we walked through the small cemetery 

and out through the back gate to freedom

into the face of the low gunmetal sun, 

long and wane upon the rushed stream; 

and we walked the rough road

past the lorry driver’s cafe lit bright,

with the jukebox singing the steam

down the bacon windows.

The old single-decker bus had stopped

where no one usually got off,

but she knew the short cut across

this rough way. She knew so many things

did my mum, with the wind under her scarf 

wrapped close to her head and 
my little coat buttoned tight 
to the late winter, hand in hand.

There was a chip shop the other way back 

under the railway arch, where the rissoles 

steamed until the bus came and licked

my fingers all the way home to dad;

and I told him about the dead railway, 
and he said time for bed, 

and mum tucked me in,

and I dreamt of the ghost train 
riding through the fence 
all the way to morning.