Each day he drove
across the county to his work
and each day passed the sign
to Twemlow Green.
Nothing special: a lane
disappearing behind trees.
Sometimes it rained. Wipers opened
a bleary eye. Sometimes the evening sun
bleached out the world, a thin ribbon
of road leading into dazzle. Once
a searchlight sun picked out two fields
against a black sky. And always
Twemlow Green remained unvisited.
Too near his destination to warrant
a diversion. Too tiring
on the journey home.
But earlier than usual, one average evening,
African guitar on the radio – he turned the car
into the lane. Round the corner a hamlet,
every house for sale. A straggly wood,
a winding lane, cultivated fields, two miles
to Twemlow Green. And then
Twemlow Green itself: a corner
into another main road,
just enough of it to turn round, go back,
rejoin the road home.
He knew there would be no marvels,
that was not what it was about.
He knew it would scarcely be significant
but each night, each morning now
that corner bears the stamp of recognition,
something discovered, something brought out
of anonymity, claimed and recognised.
Ah yes, he says to himself,
that’s the road to Twemlow Green.
