deepundergroundpoetry.com
Mistaken Nostalgia
Leaves have begun to change colour and the air smells of fresh rain.
I spot sheep grazing in the distance in clusters of twos and threes.
Out of nowhere comes a memory of a radio programme I heard as a child and I think of folk rambling in the countryside with flapping cagoules and chipped flasks of milky tea, braving the rain and the wind and the hills before stopping for their sandwich lunches on the trail, the voices on the radio singing in unison, the people content as they sing these simple songs.
The signpost for the town appears, and the brief surge of nostalgia vanishes.
A disused mill. A shut down two storey factory with a large chimney. Boarded up shops. Rows of damp looking terraced houses.
I catch a glimpse of an elderly woman standing by an upstairs window in a yellow cardigan, looking weary as she stares down on the empty cobbled street.
A blast of damp air hits me in the face when I get out of the car and I nearly step into a muddy puddle.
Elsewhere a roof tile has become loose.
Would I really want to return permanently to somewhere like here? The place is like a desert, barren and bare.
I spot sheep grazing in the distance in clusters of twos and threes.
Out of nowhere comes a memory of a radio programme I heard as a child and I think of folk rambling in the countryside with flapping cagoules and chipped flasks of milky tea, braving the rain and the wind and the hills before stopping for their sandwich lunches on the trail, the voices on the radio singing in unison, the people content as they sing these simple songs.
The signpost for the town appears, and the brief surge of nostalgia vanishes.
A disused mill. A shut down two storey factory with a large chimney. Boarded up shops. Rows of damp looking terraced houses.
I catch a glimpse of an elderly woman standing by an upstairs window in a yellow cardigan, looking weary as she stares down on the empty cobbled street.
A blast of damp air hits me in the face when I get out of the car and I nearly step into a muddy puddle.
Elsewhere a roof tile has become loose.
Would I really want to return permanently to somewhere like here? The place is like a desert, barren and bare.
Published 27th Feb 2019
Author's Note
The writing sample touches on urban redevelopment in the north of England - and in particular, how money given for redevelopment projects goes only to some regions but not others, contributing towards further, poverty, unemployment and disillusionment.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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The author encourages honest critique.
27th Feb 2019 8:46pm
It seems more and more areas becoming impoverished...we need to change our ways of thinking. Great piece. It brought me into the scene
27th Feb 2019 9:51pm
