by Jeremy Keighley
Why do I find myself here ?
the curse of my teenage years
its so narrow valley
where a cliff face looms white
over Victorian stone houses
with wet blue-grey slate roofs.
I ran at eighteen
back five years later
to find my roots
loved it/hated it
the cold/ the endless rain
but that June light
so clear, so focused, so perfect
on that tree-crowded town.
Those days and nights
spent in the Gate, the Boathouse
the County all gone now
that harsh-beautiful dialect
spoken by girls in terrible discos like prisons.
the crisp snow cracking alive under my boots
as rain – mud rain fell
cold from slate skies
washed away everything
let us sink into black holes
Oh
high above on the hills
the view
the space all laid out
like a model village
in the bowl below
the church clock
lit up white in the darkness
a second moon floating over the park
where the smell
of old men’s pipe tobacco
and “show me the way to Amarillo”
lingered over the football ground.
overgrown paths snake secretly
between hills and houses.
That buzz of excitement
On the M1
as the junction numbers got higher
and the miles got fewer
those vowel sounds I can still find
in the depths of my throat
those roots I once chopped
grown back fat and strong in the damp.

Photo credit: John Bennet
Nice poem,glad you liked my photo too.
The photo is a perfect match. The village looks really familiar, where is it ?