Time and the Wall

Plangent, silvery light

flickers along the wintry river

like ripples, like a breeze

the bus tyres squelch through

as through a mist,

skimming the river’s margin,

the Busport road.

This afternoon I walked

past the low wall

where I used to sit

to wait for you, a tiny wall

near the office

which, ridiculously,

I still think of as yours.

I’ve avoided it for years.

I scrambled past, of course,

as quickly as I could

to the ghostly bus stop.

While you are gone

and I am largely gone

from this place, that

life has gone, time

has marched on

in its mindless thrust,

when you look back

time always adds up

to more than it seemed

at the time; yet something

of me, misty and lost,

as patient as death,

seems to sit on that wall

like a useless version of forever.