Going Back

Swing doors
weighed down by the years
sigh shut, with just the faintest
wheeze. Scents throw you off.
The air is stale but doesn’t taste

Fingerprints and shadows
on the walls were painted out
ages ago. The soundtrack’s
loud with voices, ones
you’ve never heard before.
Even the banister
which slides cool wood
beneath your palm
is like a handshake
with a stranger.
Only the soles of your feet
feel the past
rise up
through sharp
right angled steps
the metal trims designed
to last forever
each one
cutting deeper.

Only the soles of your feet
know you’ve walked
these stairs and corridors


Eleanor Livingstone

If you've any comments on this poem, Eleanor Livingstone would be pleased to hear from you.