We drove out of Melbourne
without a backward look,
the car stuffed full of luggage
and a removal van en route.
The further north we got
the more we felt the energy lighten.
He’d lived there since his birth
(except one year in England);
I’d been there most of my adult life.
And we’d loved the place — but
suddenly that was all over.
Two years later I was back
for a conference, briefly.
The friend who met me said,
‘So you don’t miss Melbourne, then?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘How did you know?’
‘You’re not looking out the window.’
On occasional family visits since
we’ve noticed that the new buildings
are increasingly ugly, and the din
of the city centre is like relentless gunfire.
(The locals, we think, tune out.)
No, we don’t miss Melbourne.
April PAD Challenge 20
Prompt (2): Not looking back
Some of these poems are autobiographical, some are entirely fictional, and some are a mixture of both. The intention is art rather than self-expression. I don't allow factual details to get in the way of poetry! (I do seek emotional truth.)
They are works in progress, and may be subject to revision without notice. Completed versions appear in my books. Nevertheless copyright applies to all texts found here.
Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your posts as much as possible.