I came back on a Monday morning, Rain was hanging in the air. The station clock was where I left it, The old hotel was still there. Down the hill, across the crossing, Past the church and cobbled stone, Every turn was still familiar On the street I used to know. I walked into the corner public house, Ordered what I drank before. The same old photographs were hanging, The same brass handle on the door. I asked the man behind the counter, Do you remember me at all? He looked at me for half a moment, Then shook his head and turned away. I remember every window. I remember every door. I remember voices calling From the houses here before. If nothing here has disappeared, If everything remains, Why does no one know my face? Why does no one know my name? Number seventeen was waiting, Red brick underneath the rain. I touched the gate I used to open. Even rust had stayed the same. A woman answered when I knocked there. She said her family always had. Forty years inside those rooms. No other name. No other man. In a shop beside the station, I found photographs for sale. Summer nineteen fifty-seven, Faces washed and turning pale. There was t
