I thought my childhood rich,

my brother thought us poor.

The horseblanket on the bed

that warmed me,

shamed him.

The scrubby fields that were endless

and glorious

and green-gold in the evening sun

were mud and weeds

beneath his feet.

The country that raised me

drove him away,

to somewhere more civilised,

less ignorant,

where good clothes could be bought

and no-one smelled of horses.

This is no “I told you so”

now that we are both old -

he does not know his neighbours,

but some of mine

write “half mick road” or

throw a brick,

or turn away and mutter

when I walk by.

Others come to help and sweep

the broken glass, or fix the roof.

He does not love where he lives,

but he does not miss where he’s from.

My heart breaks and soars

with the news on any given day.

He has concrete, which he finds tidy.

I have stony ground, restful to my eyes.

He has central heating and a pension.

I have no notion what I’ll do

when there’s no more work.

Who chose the better life?

Neither of us made a choice.

Our souls unravelled

and became the paths we walked

(though his, I admit,

is less muddy.)