Going Back
Swing doors weighed down by the years sigh shut, with just the faintest wheeze. Scents throw you off. The air is stale but doesnt taste familiar. Fingerprints and shadows on the walls were painted out ages ago. The soundtracks loud with voices, ones youve never heard before. Even the banister which slides cool wood beneath your palm is like a handshake with a stranger. Only the soles of your feet feel the past rise up through sharp right angled steps the metal trims designed to last forever each one cutting deeper. Only the soles of your feet know youve walked these stairs and corridors before.
Eleanor Livingstone
If you've any comments on this poem, Eleanor Livingstone would be pleased to hear from you.