A Street View Poem by Roy Ballard

Like a lover, lost, forlorn,
I google up 'Street View'
to find the town where I was born
which might be made anew
or still have those same, happy paths
my childish knowing knew.

On a screen I see the place,
how time is sharp of tooth,
where I stepped out with early grace
and flexible with youth,
unburdened with the memory
of what my country used to be.

Memory retains the best:
the woody hill, the stream,
things for a tiny time possessed
that now seem like a dream
and brief as motes that flash and go
upon a sunny beam.

A childish day is like a year;
my years are like a day.
What's gone before is all too clear
for time tears veils away
and ancient have become the things
that I hold dear today.