
Out of nowhere
The other night
A random memory hit me
Of when I was five or six
We only have a few memories of those times
When we were small
Don’t we?
A few isolated oases
In the deserts of the past
In this one I was in Port Alfred
A small boy
At my aunt’s house on holiday
A small seaside town
And there I was
Sitting on the steps of the veranda
At about 9pm at night
The adults all inside, I was all alone
Looking out across at the lights of the houses and street poles
It was December and it was hot
But quiet
So quiet, and I liked that
There was something about it all
I suddenly had a thought
I needed to write something about this
I ran in to grab a pad and pen
The empty page suddenly seemed heavy in my hand
But I looked out again at the night and the feeling remained
In the distance I could make out the lights of the petrol station
At the point where the main road reached the town
I could faintly hear the distant groan of a truck
Few things more lonely
Than the sound of a truck on the highway at night
I had to write something
I felt compelled
Eventually I wrote the line
“Port Alfred is a quiet place”
I sat there for a long time after that
Trying to think of how to continue
But nothing came
I had this feeling swelling inside me in that instant
About this quiet moment in this quiet town at night
But I didn’t have the words or skill to put it down on paper
That was the only line I wrote
The paper was discarded and forgotten
Life went on
I wonder now how I might have completed that poem
Nowadays in my older age I can write lines like second nature
Usually
But sometimes I still sit outside after dark
And take in the sounds of night
Lights in the distance
Perhaps the gentle sound of swaying branches
A few more sounds now, here, than in Port Alfred 30 years ago
But still
Life has a way of letting life get in the way of everything important
But that deep rooted part of ourselves persists
At least it should
We just have to find it
Sometimes it’s at 3:25am thinking back
About how Port Alfred is a quiet place
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