Poem — Anne French

On the way 

for Geoff Park

 

On the way to Mein Street, everyone 
seems unnaturally well and strong.
 
That elegant girl, swinging her bag
as she crosses the road in front of me;
 
that lean school-boy, slouching by the lights,
his shirt-tail out and his face shining
 
with a cheeky thought. They are all
on their way somewhere, lit up 
 
by their beautiful intent.
Purpose drives them on through
 
the sunny afternoon. Observe how 
they glow. Admire their dance 
 
through the traffic, certain it will wait
for them. They have no idea
 
why I carry Billy Collins’ poems 
and a box of chocolates.
 
Their insouciance is a blessing.
It has not yet occurred to them 
 
that we are all on our way 
to the hospice, one way or another.

Anne French

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