Poetry 

By Bryan Murphy

Recurrent Dream

A sea-washed flint front;

door hangs open, threshold beckons.

One small step out of the light:

a synapse-leap into the past.

This house is older than the USA,

its neighbours languish empty;

within, avatars of former flat-mates,

or strangers, extend a silent welcome.

“Brighthelmstone” cared for its fishermen

before waves of aristos, gamblers, criminals,

tourists, commuters and students

fleshed its skeleton with “Brighton”.

Its heart aged pricey with antique shops,

with ethnic eateries like “English’s”.

In its heart, Warwick Street held out

till developers moved in.

The project sounded good: sheltered housing

for the elderly, green lawns, room to swing.

An organised community that dispossessed

the natural chaos of human communality.

But it’s youth, first freedoms, deepest friends,

not history, that sucks me through the doorway

to feel who’s there,

which “I” I am tonight.

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