The Fume

The Fume

 

There’s no standing here – the road

winds leftwards between walls

charcoaled with emissions – a gulf

of possibilities between them. That

space where the double yellow line

sweeps round is enough to give them

separate destinies. Notice how those

oblique shadows turn outwards at

their heads, as though they are thinking

secretly of the parting. The atoms

of my being have split and disengaged:

I am a wafting fume. Do not sigh for me.

 

Remember only: all I ever wanted

was for those mittened hands to hold –

to feel the clench and pressure

through the knitted layers of wool,

 

and for the door to open, and let them

enter a more loving, warmer kind of world.

 

Poem by Giles Watson, 2013.

Done