I used to dream that we would walk together
hand in hand — just once —
around the streets of my home town,
where people who knew me could see us together
and say: ‘Look who’s back! He used to be so quiet!’
I’d just carry on walking, holding your hand,
showing you the places that meant a lot to me:
my old school, the single pine tree on Cullen’s Hill,
the abandoned mill where I used to hide, to read.
It never happened, of course,
and maybe it was selfish of me.