I came too late
and never saw his face,
just a shrouded figure on the stretcher
and boots protruding from the plastic sheet.

A summer afternoon. The sun lay
like a warm hand on his back
as he climbed up to fix a broken tile.
He could see for miles from here –
the hills as soft as smoke,
the sea air prickling like champagne.

Reaching for his tools
he trod on air,
saw the sky slide sideways,
heard the seagull’s scream cut

Just the boots.
The sort you wear for doing outside work,
clarted with dried mud
and the left one’s lace undone.

You can hear and audio track of this poem :



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s