I didn't know
I was going this far
from your narrow streeted charm,
cramped and curdled lives.

I could walk those home streets
blindfold still,
the turns, the hills, diversions
familiar
as part of my body

Red brick church, rose window
dark.
Inside colour touches hardwood pews,
stone carved in curlicues,
stone left rough, one hundred years now
unfinished work.

Here where generations
baptise, wed and bury,

No more of us will be wed there
no more buried.
The holds and ties
of how things are done
more than broken.

From this land I am gone away.

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