Going for the Saturday paper
It’s two arms through the rucksack now,
attempting to correct the shoulder sag
of misspent youth. Look both ways
before I cross the straight stretch,
that’s Herbert’s Way.
Step on the cracks not over –
beware those root-thrust jutting flags
down Chestnut Avenue.
Lopped-off tops have sprouted
a pollard of bottle-brush beacons
where once laden arms dropped conkers:
the uneven paving of my children’s past,
polished and threaded on string.
My roots are far away, too distant to recall,
yet when I pass the bow-front nets
down semi-detached Oakland Drive,
the weight of the Times on my back
is almost too much to bear.