Stranger In My Town

Last week I had the chance to stroll down the high street of my home town. I call it my home town because I’ve spent the most time here, between going elsewhere and back again. The idea of staying somewhere long enough to know everyone is a little disturbing to me. I’ve always moved about, and I like it.

Last week however, I was struck by how different everything seemed to me. My eyes were opened to the strangeness and the strangers in my town. Who where all these people and where had they come from? I sat in the window of the coffee shop, seeing people flow past, hell-bent of the sales. Bags and bits, and so many heads down, pre-occupied with their mission.

I wonder if they wonder who everyone else is?

This piece follows the idea, of a return. As we will be in England for a while. Lots going on this year so we will see what we can, when we can. And enjoy the family and friends that are around us. I still not sure about the line breaks so I’ll be playing with it for a while yet. Seeing how far I can take the idea.

Home Town

Everywhere I look there are strangers
eyes watching me as I walk,
or wait in the traffic, driving,
they seem to know where I’m going.
Know I left, went elsewhere and returned.
I do not know these faces, and they do not
know me.

They accuse my diversions, my travels,
even though now, I am here. Returned,
with nothing more than pictures to show,
stories to tell.
They are the strangers who occupy my town,
passers-by who stare while I walk the places
I have been.


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