Efa Lewis. Port Talbot

i have come back 
to the village i swore i would never see again. 
i walk into the corner shop on leanord street 
and somewhere in the back of my mind 
i have an instinct to glance at the till and smile 
at sîan’s dad 
who works the 9 to 5 every day except sunday 
when he hands out tea and biscuits at mass.  
but as i pay for my cigarettes and look up, 
it is not sîan’s dad. 
this place has changed, like me. 
but the street still smells the same 
of acid rain and failed maths papers 
of sneezes and hannah’s nan. 
the terraced houses wind in a pattern that my feet still remember, 
the now yellow-edged lace curtains pulled tightly shut 
as people realise there is an imposter on the street. 
an imposter. 
i have reached the reservoir, over which there was a rope swing, 
but now there are only crows. 
i remember watching my friends launch off the edge,  
never daring to myself because  
mammy will not be happy if she has to bleach your grass-stained socks 
and suddenly i am overcome with feelings of  
home and contentment and closure. 
there is a welsh phrase, “dod yn ôl at fy nghoed” 
or “to return to my trees”. 
i have returned, trees.  
now rest.