Early morning haze summer sun
Summit softly melts
Thoughts of heaven
Breeze passed like cars
Light glancing off polished bonnets
Rear view mirrors
Reflecting what’s gone before:
Everything.
Everything unless, of course, you want to count what is yet to come,
What’s up ahead,
Between here and there,
The remote-close place where the bonfire of forever burns all our many vanities.
It’s a journey I’ve made before, and always
Although alone
I’ve been in good company.
Countless are they who have climbed this hill,
Countless and each one different,
Each climb is different,
Each carefully preserved in the sedimentary rock of time
Encoded in my bones.
Perhaps, these words are time,
First one, and then another,
Like castles built out of sand on sand –
Some think each one beautiful.
Today, which is the (insert date) two thousand and twenty-five,
I am moved by a combination of a body and a Brompton bike,
Its four gears and light-weight titanium frame easing the physical effort.
Maybe one day high technology will mean we don’t need to try at all.
The hill will climb itself.
We won’t even know we were there.
What a thought!
For now, I must still work a bit to make my way.
And as I pedal, I recall how later on today
When I reach the top
I will meet a wise old cleaning lady
And a less wise grey-haired ‘boss man’:
Both will watch and offer commentary
As I, all smug, fold up my transportation,
As if it’s some kind of Herculean and impressive feat.
The man, he’s white, let’s call him Bill, will just beam
Happily and exclaim ‘neat!’ (said drawn out)
The cleaning lady (Blessing?),
Black, of course,
Regards the clever gadget with suspicion,
Remarks ‘It looks expensive,’
Perhaps mourning brothers and sisters,
Unmarked graves that enabled my ascent,
Hidden costs of production and consumption,
A determined frown
Gaze fixed further down
The lane –
What goes around comes around
Again.
We’ve not, let’s point out, arrived quite yet
The fat lady has not yet sung,
There is still everything else to be begun
And, of course, not to be denied,
It will not be denied,
Unknowable, inevitable
Unmoving, unmoved,
Like a parked car,
Somewhere down the road
The Memorial Hospital,
Guest house of memories,
Our journey’s end
Sits patiently,
Waiting for us to drive off with it
Into the sunset,
Nothing special really
Just balloons and ribbons
Some confetti, tears, perhaps,
Perhaps, some laughter
A sign that says, ‘Just married!’
And then will we all live happily ever after?
Yes To All Of It 