Who wants to die at Turnham Green
where mother’s eyes danced, dazzled?
Who wants to die at Stamford Brook
where father’s eyes were fixed and cold?
Who wants to die at Priory Avenue
where cruelty was an education?
Who wants to die at Hammersmith
surrounded by doting doctors?
Mother didn’t but she did,
Who wants to die at Uxbridge?
Father did - and he did,
Who wants to die at Priory Avenue?
I do and I did,
Who wants to wait at Turnham Green?
I do and I can,
District Line lumbers, like the years,
Hot, languid London summers,
Bitter winters in distant Chiswick,
Memories nourished by fertile mind.
All gone yesterdays ago,
But the pavements haven’t changed.
© Michael Garrad January 2012
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