Clyde Street Granville

In stoic remembrance the alien is walking
over Granville’s tender suburban streets,
Walking naked from the knees down,
For, barefooted, he hopes to replant his roots,
The alien returning to his suburban corrals,
A past umbilically connected to a virgin future.
His were brackish dreams mooted in his school-hood,
His life back then is his old testament now,
He has nowhere left to go.

Pedestrians look away; this alien is malign,
Those who enquire of his health, smile in satisfaction,
Those who fear this alien’s gait, nourish their reactions
and throw their rubbish at his feet.
Anticipating the displeasure of the crunch
the alien evades the mines,
Once upon a time the nearby bins wanted them.
Displaying contempt, lovers peck at each other’s eyes,
And there are the unconcerned, who get on with it,
Shop surfing….dining in and out.

No sooner do home memories flood in than
they leave for built apartments, leaving for good.
Everything like chaos, alienation, loss of hope
and pain is relative; some things shouldn’t be lost.
The alien is covetous, his recollections form as
movements in the symphony of traffic.
On an underpass wall he knew, was once written
‘The young write poetry, the old are the poets’
and over it, fantasy art and minimalist
worm-worked tags, are their reply.

The alien walks the footpaths of Clyde Street.
He walks along hewed treads of the street’s upbringing,
His upbringing; that was fun!
A few 3 bed fibro hatcheries left, the shops were little too!

Onward the alien strides, through glens of indifference.
The gutters seem familiar, storm drains look the same.
Truly, bingo ruled the Crest Ballroom’s cavernous hall.
Was that a person seen across the street, who might’ve
been a friend?

And further along the pathways of attempted acceptance,
He’s no closer, his faith beating soundly in his chest,
and at a pedo-crossing, the alien observes his stomach.
Wait a minute! It must turn on its back
Retrace his steps, recoup his threads,
and search for that shop. He passes street names,
driveways, power poles, and letter boxes,
Orientating himself like a lost schoolboy,
The alien has got that peckish recall.
He nourishes himself with a chicken kebab,
Washing it down with mineral water,
At the takeaway, his old fish ‘n chips shop.

The layers of disorientation peel away to reveal
an alien child-heart overwhelmed by despair,
And it rearranges the way his nerves react,
Emotionally remembering the last true hurt he felt,
A confrontation with xenophobic louts,
Launching insults from their parted buttock mouths,
On the dark side of the Granville railway station.
The station clock’s arms are shedding their hours,
They point for him to leave, the empty footpaths part,
The traffic lights simultaneously show green,
Slow moving vehicles unite and morph into caterpillars,
Shop front awnings wave him goodbye,
He pleads for his myths which mustn’t leave him.

Francis Bede