When I was young there was nothing exactly stupid
about the world. In fact, in the good old days
there was the thump and the tug of it, the way it heaved itself
like a stone, yanked so to speak in glory,
the way it fell up, crushed up, and then crushed up again,
getting newer and newer, louder and sweeter,
the way it watched its own face fall between its fingers
as though its face were a handful of gold coins.
I think I might have known the whole drag of everything
going upwards, a tide that pulled me with it.
Actually, I know I did. (You were part of all this by the way.)
And the sky, well, where to begin?
The sky was so adult, not imbecilic or thin or so-so or girlish.
Did I outgrow it?
Did I drink it, shoot it, find a way round it?
Did I get inside it and drive off in it?
Forgive me, but on my way to work this morning,
even though the sun was on fire and the trees were up,
I was in the apocalypse. Death is not what you think it is.
It’s actually what I think it is.
Published in Meanwhile, Trees (Bloodaxe Books, 2016). Reprinted by permission of Bloodaxe Books.