With the comfort of old friends, this town
is a white canvas of purity: light, fresh, joyous.
But, as I walk…alone, this town
haunts my emotions:
grey veined ink stains emerge,
not dropped/splashed from above,
instead they seep insipidly,
as if soaking up from below…
then they darken, darken, black,
drawn from the centre out –
I stroll the park, ice cream in hand to
shake the shivery tainted feeling.
I linger opposite a door, once associated
with fear, feel…nothing…
I walk on, having washed
my canvas white again.
(Additional info: the town is Bideford, which was referred to as the “Little White Town” by Charles Kingsley in his novel “Westward Ho!”)