A road is a path you remember

We walked down the street many years
until this life became clearer,
it was a long walk too, past scenery
never really focused on acutely,
because you rarely do in your own space,
in familiar shades of time, do you.

You said you couldn’t go back afterwards
to how you once were. I always would
if it meant regaining something entirely lost,
could sacrifice many present gains;
I may be different to most in that way.

We held hands as if our lives knew
that this grasp had been met.
And at corner’s end, caught the draft
of expectations, of bakeries and shops
and the scope of absent passers by.
Resolved, brought a gingerbread to inhabit
our own faerie tales.

When fables become a reality,
it’s the darker aspects that children love,
and adults increasingly fear,
that can influence the story. Yet the gingerbread
has still all his buttons in place, hasn’t lost
his smile, and that’s a sweeter testament to us.