A rock fall, perhaps from years gone by,
Blocks the path with unearthed hunks
Of stone, while striking up at the sky
Wooden lightening bolts from shattered trunks
Give pause, but we shake the reins
And packs from our horses and let them go,
Then, mindful of ankle sprains,
We walk under hanging veils of snow
And with hook and rope
Scale the treacherous and the sheer
And apart from the opposite slope
Arrive to find that nothing is here.
For this we fled the silent and empty room
Where memories stir
In the cupboard of evening’s gloom
Where tumbling locks and failure concur,
Where litter scatters outside in the streets
Restless till all the wind is spent,
Leaving the city dark and draped in sheets . . .
And now we begin the descent.
It’s late. The off season. The front shut down
In a wintering seaside town,
Where the bright, chilly arcade
Is kept open by stragglers in their last decade,
Where the kids take the train to the city
Brimming with impatience. Pity,
Because everything for which they strive
Is back here, from where they arrive.
They only ever learn by the end of summer,
And though the park and prom are even glummer
They seek out the porter in the echoing station—
"At this time of year? Loads of accommodation!"
In the wind that drives down the street
The flags of the future unfold
And bent against it, nursing their faded heat,
The last citizens grow old.
Gulls flicker above distant cliffs,
The harbour lies empty,
To the shore the driftwood drifts,
As the land becomes a cemetery.
We few who set sail now outpace
Death and steer ever further north
To where the ice knocks against outer space
And the aerial splits into a fork.
The radio speaker crackles and we hear
Laughter from the land of bone:
"Eternity, we fear,
Is icy cold. But, hey, welcome home!"