The Summer Hill

A poem about innocence, memories and the fact that, in the words of Viriginia Wolfe, we can never truly go home

A thought for tonight

One of many

Abstract and unhinged

It’s worth far exceeds any number of pennies

In front of me lies the hill of my youth,

Not barren or dead

It’s a memory of summer, fresh honeysuckle

Covered in dew and the sugar-sweet wind

Is a sound that soothes

Even the most intense burning in the depths

Of my soul

Like a film of my life, I watch from the Point

All the good all the bad

My first kiss, my first fight

Playing ball with the boys

It’s all gone now and I can never go home

But the hill of my youth

Will never grow old.