Dislocated
2nd Friday Prompt: travel tales
Almost a year has passed since I stepped out of the taxi into the fog of last December
Travelling for hours: A lift (to the station) A train (plenty of seats) A walk (I don’t recommend St Pancras just before Christmas)
A pitstop for overpriced coffee and a sandwich and scanning of the departure boards and a walk against the flow of humanity and more nervous scanning of the departure boards and a wander into a bookshop that overwhelmed me because there was too much choice and trying to squeeze me, my winter coat, my backpack, my shoulder bag and my suitcase into an impossibly small cubicle because god help me I need a wee before I get on the train.
A train (amazingly, not cancelled) A walk (down stairs, along a concourse, up stairs — have I remembered all my luggage?) A train, thank god the final train (also, not cancelled, but no spare seats) A taxi (‘you’re a long way from home, cariad’)
‘I’m home’ I want to say, but the words feel alien in my mouth, like the shred of sheep’s wool hanging from the fence, like the route we took from the station to the village which wasn’t the only one I knew so I panicked just in case, like the mountains rising up in place of skyscrapers, like the village war memorial, like the local milk, like the local cheese, like the cup of coffee in an unfamiliar mug. Like everything.
I’m numb
It is my home, but
Almost a year has passed since I stepped out of the taxi into the fog of last December
I’ve lived far from here for years The age old story Of ‘go where the work is’ Of plans fractured, mended, misshapen Of inertia Of indecision Of of of…
I still don’t know where we keep the spare toothpaste Or what I have done with my fountain pens Or what plants suit the garden nestled behind our halfway up a mountain house It’s not quite yet my home
Almost a year has passed since I stepped out of the taxi into the fog of last December.
This poem has been inspired by Paroma Sen, who shared her 2nd Friday prompt ‘travel tales’. Please do go ahead and read her Airport prose poem — it captured my dread of those places extremely well. Thank you, Paroma for this prompt!
Paroma writes in Scrittura, which is a fabulous haven for those of us who love poetry. I’m getting back into the swing of writing poetry after a (far too long) break and am currently finding my feet.
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