backwards through time,
past shops that sold toy cars,
down the hill I could not cycle up.
I see myself outside the chippie
then turning up late
for that date that turned sour.
I remember my weekend job for £1 an hour
where those houses are now
and pass the post box where the post office
is no more.
I wonder how,
with the butcher and corner shop lost,
kids could be sent for messages,
missing out on the penny basket
and so I wonder what is the cost,
as I watch from my driving seat,
from my personal theatre that shows
my own backwards play:
the towers of my knocked down school,
the safety barriers of the once open pond,
and the bush that is no longer able to hide
its kissing occupants,
not that it was I who kissed her that day.