What makes a place a home town?

Being born on a particular street

or hospital ward in a town is surely

just an accident of birth, like being proud

to be British, when stuck on an island

somewhere in the Atlantic makes any difference

to what you are like as a Human being,

being proud to British when pride is such a

bizarre state of mind, being proud for

choosing the exact moment in which

to escape the warm confines of the womb

when had your parents decided

to go out for the day and being stuck

in Coventry just as the water’s break, means

your pride would lay elsewhere.

 

Is it where the happiest memories lie,

where those who loved you, where the first

girl you kissed still lives and works,

perhaps at the same hospital she was

born in, still drinks at the same pub

you took her to as the underage smell

of pheromones and cheap thrill

cider racked up the pleasantries

and the chance of a beautiful sly kiss

in the corner of the bar is etched forever

on the mind.

The home town, there are many after all,

least of all the adopted, the place

where they mended your broken spirit,

where they offered you a home and the chance

to be saved, the chance to be salvaged

and brought back, raging to live a life…

 

Born, lived, truly lived and were born again,

home

wherever you are, I love the thought

of coming back to you.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015