Sightseers, 5th December, Poem of theDay
We visit the same haunts every year
our children’s lives marked
by brightly coloured pins
in the Ordnance Survey map.
Charting stumbling toddler years
to teenage angst, until they disappear
from camera view, exams taking hold
and later preferring to travel
further and wider, backpacking
across Europe, sleeping in hostels
cooling their heels on the InterRail car.
Yet when we travel, we carry
the memory of the children
they once were, through city trails
across familiar landscapes, the hillsides
the beaches, the hundred acre woods.
We hear our children’s laughter
in the grounds of ruined castles
running up the steep steps on cliff walks.
Voices shouting over crashing waves.
We stand on high bridges
looking down over the edge
awed by the sheer drop.
It is as if they have never left us.
We are sightseers still.