I often thought about running away from home

when I was a child,

not because I was unhappy or ill treated,

neglected or even abused

by those charged with caring for me,

but simply due to the map of the world

that graced the wall of my bedroom,

surrounded by torn out pictures

of Steve Heighway, Johan Cruyff,

Colin Bell on football styled 1978

World Cup designed wall paper

that was all the rage in Birmingham

during Argentina’s rise to prominence.

 

The map became torn and scuffed

as my small sized hand leaned against

the wall and my nose

almost touching the thin but expertly drawn

atlas, the gateway to the world, the following of events

on my radio across the globe, recognised by these

industrial names, quaint, forbidding, beckoning

names that I wanted to see, to experience

and walk down dreams of splendid intrigue

as a young boy.

 

It was not the only large poster on my wall

but I don’t remember too much about

the places on the Moon, save the sea of tranquillity

and Birmingham, nor have the names of British

butterflies stuck in my head except the Cabbage

White or the striking Red Admiral;

however I can still see that map,

catching the sun rays through window frames

pained brown by a man who wanted

to move on up in the world,

whilst I was content to walk through it.

Ian D. Hall 2016