359: Walking Backwards

I'm walking down a street

in late April or May,

while the sun teases the green buds

on red branches.

It's spring, and I'm walking backwards

down a street I lived on years ago.

I don't know

if it still looks the same;

if the grey-and-white cat still lurks on the corner,

and the blackbirds still nest in the hedge —

if the driveway is still laid with red bricks

all the way down to the sidewalk.

There was a shortcut

between that street and the main road, overgrown

with leafy climbers

and buzzing bees.

I was stung there, once.

A stranger stopped

to ask if I was all right.

I walk further back

and I'm on a crescent road

walking home from a bus stop by a cemetery.

I didn't know any of the people living there,

beyond the couple I stayed with,

but I'd seen the neighbours' children

draw chalk flowers on the pavement

often enough

to recognise them from a distance.

It's late April or May

and I'm walking down a street

where the sun teases green buds

from red branches,

and all I hear is the birdsong

from streets I no longer live on.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: All poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been viewed and commented on by our editors. Ultimately, however, we believe that it is the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions made by the editors, and therefore take no responsibility for the final product.