Homeward bound

Just as well the house

I lived in as a child has

been demolished,

bulldozed, removed from

the surface of the planet

and replaced by two new

houses with no history.

Not that I would want

it still standing but

extensively remodeled

and modernised. No

point in that other than

it representing the spot

on the planet where

I was formed and grew.

What I want, I suppose,

is to magically return

to the functioning 1950s

house, even the 1960s.

Furniture still in place,

pictures on walls, carpets

on floors, ornaments on

shelves, books in bookcases.

And people, people in chairs,

in kitchens, watching tv,

in the garden, welcoming

the New Year, talking of

the past. A house, a home,

reconstructed, revisited,

a place I once couldn’t

wait to escape for new

adventures, new sights

and sounds, new people.

But the past is another

country, and you can’t go back.

11/11/1918

Just think

what all those dead

young men could have done

in the years after 1918.

Think of the advances

in Art, Literature,

Music, Science. Think of

the leaders who might

have steered their countries

into a better new age.

And think of the

potential of their

descendants, never born.

Because politicians,

and Generals, thought

nothing of those things,

and happily sent

them off to die.

For nothing.