Stood as I was, soles planted
on Yatton Station bridge
facing a chill blue wind
in from the Levels,
I thought of the end of things.
My eyes glazed over with tears
distorting the vanishing point:
that place in the distance,
of converging tracks.
I remembered thinking
how similar death
is to the final day of the
summer holidays
suffered during those
long, unquestioning years
shuffled off to school
to rows of desks, and banging
sweet soil from rugby boots
and how accustomed we are
to illusions jostling around us:
the track is no closer
over there in Worle, miles from here.
And the last day is only a prelude,
a hesitation for more learning,
before school shoes can again
lie abandoned, bleaching
in the summer sun.
And what of death?
Will our watery eyes
Distort life’s end
As our flesh lies abandoned?
And, like my school shoes,
probably be the wrong size
as we grow into the Unending
and are dressed in sunshine.
Will we get new shoes?