Poetry Pleases: Growing Up
David Bennett writes about an emotional walk along a village street - and wonders whether memories always make us sad.
We walked along the village street together
In the warm, wet, drifting rain.
Our steps were slow and getting slower
As journey’s end approached.
We passed the little school where Miss Cutts taught us both
To spell,
Easy words like ‘fat’ and ‘sat’,
Hard words like ‘peppered’ and ‘shepherd’.
We passed the house where the rich people lived,
The kind and quiet, rich, old people
Who gave us each a pound at Christmas
For singing our carols.
They would invite us in,
Give us a seat and a warm mince pie
And ask us to sing another carol.
So we would sing another carol
And solemnly watch the old man cry.
Would memories always make us sad, I thought,
As we got older? Or were we old already?
Our shoulders bumped together
And our elbows touched occasionally
As we walked along in silence.
Together but apart, and growing farther apart
As we neared her home.
Quite suddenly, we were there.
By her gate where we had first met.
“I’ll go in then,” she said.
“Thanks for walking me home
And for getting so wet.”
“That’s OK,” I said. “Cheers. See you around.”
I lifted my hand in a mock, carefree salute
And took a step away, hoping for the sound
Of her voice.
This wasn’t right, I thought. I must say something,
But speech was quite impossible.
My throat was an all-pervading ache.
Crazy, stupid thoughts came, urgently and insistently
Into my mind.
Let her go, for heaven’s sake,
Walk away, be strong, be a man.
So I did. Walk away that is.
With the tears pricking my eyes
And my legs wanting to stay,
I walked back up the road
To the bench put there by the Council
For old men to sit on.
It was dark. The bench was empty.
So I sat, head in hands,
Lost in my personal misery.
And as the soft autumn mist drifted down,
The tears fell unchallenged from my eyes.
Hopelessness, emptiness, sadness beyond sadness.
I sat benumbed in the blackness of despair.
A pair of soft hands cupped my eyes.
My tears squeezed unashamedly through her fingers.
“Guess who,” she said.
“Thank God,” I croaked, “It’s you.”
We held each other close
And embraced away our pain.
“Never, never, never,” she whispered,
“Never again.”
