Ashcombe Road

Don’t forget – Ashcombe Road is deceptively long.
there’s something about the symmetry of railway lines,
the sameness on both sides of that overbridge view;

And, nearby, the wet indication that dew is underfoot,
as grass tickles barefoot players into a frenzy of kicking;

Or, in the same park, a spliff is smoked, and a can of cider drunk,
before attempting that frightful drop-in from the metal ramp;

Also the notable absence of concrete
(on grass the children skip, but further afield young infants engage in tarmac tantrums);

Or people here might sit and talk upon the view of the descending sun going down over that small town
(which from such vantage point seems but a mist – a piece of cardboard pasted on the hills);

In impatient, doped-up scatters, the chavs of Dorking town sit ironically
(or not so ironically)
on a small child’s playground plaything;

Whilst nearby are the ducks, which have been fed often by she and I
and with a young companion on her knee;

Walking through pavement next to pond,
walking to/from my best friend’s metal-coil home;

And how the view from his window reminds me of my own village;

Or how I always spare a moment to listen to his father’s finance issues;

And, oh, the hours spent under that roof –
Laughing, eating, playing, massaging, pretending, meditating, observing,
Laughing, laughing, laughing,
poisoning ourselves with various drugs we both now avoid (mostly);

Or, suddenly, as if by magic, elsewhere there may be the concoction of word-of-mouth,
gaggles of music- or film- hungry youths littered by that statue of a man named Tom;

Hoping through hope that there are good bands tonight,
a good film tonight,
a good anything tonight;

Whilst we in shamed hunger sashay drunkenly into KFC,
ordering greasy food without a care for anything else
(except perhaps the redness of our eyes, or the joyful skipping and tripping of our tipsy feet);

with fresh regard the all-Asian staff respond politely to our dribble,
and, sitting, we eat and talk and giggle about the vacant look in the other’s eyes;

Elsewhere, meanwhile, in a different point in time and a different time in space,
The echoes of three minutes ago rush past my ears;
Thinking upon the rare moment just had,
The one I dream about of she involved,
The one time so special, so special to us;

And how, always, during these years,
always I arranged some time for that hippy store,
‘Human Nature’;

Buying bracelets of wood,
necklaces of hemp,
sticks of incense;

Sometimes to keep for myself,
but other times a sweetheart present,
a wooing in jewellery;

The drug-dealing scene, also, I could remark upon quite lengthily –
Jack, Tom, Adam, Matt, Steve – These names are fine;
But avoid obtaining from Steff, John, Luke, Ahmed;

Through the tiresome hours of many days I shuffled through Dorking high street,
both earphones in, a black wire curling its way down beneath my garments,
my baggy trousers and backpack and beanie sporting different shades of brown,
my trainers sometimes muddy from the long field walk from the suburb of a suburb to the suburb itself;

And that all-too-well-known embarrassment,
mild yet nocuous enough to be feared,
which I feel when buying porn;

Or, speaking of buying,
my ability to clasp both hands greedily on alcohol – that legal drug still illegal to me –
thankful always that some facial hair can provide a night of entertainment,
through the feigning of being eighteen years old;

Much debauchery,
I cannot really think upon,
only an abundance of silliness;

A lot of late-night wandering,
a vast amount of wandering,
copious, limitless supplies of foot-energy,
used always for walking;

Under these neon lights I walked several years in the same static town,
Forgetting the distances, the lengths from here to there – from ATM to station,
From hippy-shop to the metal-coil home,
From Jack’s or Steff’s or Matt’s supply of ganja to the council building,
From the library to the supermarket –
I forgot all the lengths over and over,
I kept forgetting,
Because really I only wanted to walk back to Goodwyns
And retire in her arms after visiting the place my father used to live,
Before he-
Before she- goes away
But never was I allowed,
And in my confusion I kept forgetting all those damned distances,
I kept forgetting just how long Ashcombe Road really was…


…But I kept walking.
kept remembering, too.
remember this?...
remember when my hair was blonde (you didn’t even know me then);

Remember when we briefly met,
and came apart both bewildered by the other’s weirdness;

Remember all the times?
all the breaks and lunches,
all the rain we loved and kissed in,
looking up through blossomed tree and cloud-watching briefly,
we hugged and hugged and hugged
and I loved every moment
(yes, even the bad ones);

I loved it all.
If only, that again.
All that again.

But how far would I have to walk –
‘to the yellow-gold horizon?
to France, our own special land of dreams?
to, finally, the end of Ashcombe Road –
the road all of us – all us, friends,
have travelled for five years;

And isn’t it deceptively long?

How far, friends, until we reach the end?
a large part of me doesn’t ever want to,
for fear of a dead-end road.
but, really, I can’t wait –
for the promises we have of happiness and individuality are enough,
it’s splendid enough for me to think upon my own future with she.
For she will always be, in one sense or another, with me.
One day, when I will no longer need to dream of that walk to Goodwyns,
When a shift of mind or limb in the morning is enough to touch her.

Yes, upon pondering, upon thinking of these few years past, now, as I tread my tired feet,
On the concrete and tarmac of the pavement of Ashcombe Road,
I become overwhelmed, simply;

I feel nothing but love;

Each tree I pass lingers lazily and knowingly;

Each hedge looks like the previous one;

I thought I just saw the turning to the motorway…

No, just another entrance to The Ashcombe School…

Don’t forget – Ashcombe Road is deceptively long.