The Last Post . . .

As promised, we have come to the terminus of the journey. There are plenty of other things that could be written of; but everything that needs be written has been written, especially in the last handful of mailings.

Thank you to those who accompanied me on the journey—a journey I didn't necessarily want to make, but felt compelled to, under impetus of the silence of others perhaps more entitled to speak.

By way of valediction—as it were, a sort of Horseman, Pass By moment:


Going Solo

I heard last night that you were dead,
the three of you,
a landlady,
someone I worked with,
an old girlfriend;
and I drew a fourth to fill a hand,
my father,
caught obliquely in the sideways mirror of the pub
as I raised my glass,
ambushed by his likeness
in the image.

And if I was to speak falsely of it,
I might say something about the loneliness
of the round-the-world yachtsman
setting out
as the flotilla breaks behind
and turns for shore.

But the truth is I'm indifferent.

19/1/2000