The Dream of a Goodbye

Future days are only guesswork -Apart from the final oneHidden like a cat in the undergrowth,Or a day in the calendar, waiting -Waiting – like the last shining moon.On that day I would like to climb theCrumbling steps on Scapegoat Hill andStare at the valley where my familyStruggled and grew and had their fun.Long before Chernobyl, I would muse,My northern town coughed and chokedAs the wind blew a sooty breathOn mills, houses, moors and men.Women scrubbed and pummelled the taintedWorld they found, but they knew it wasBuilt in the shadow of the mills.

There are no smogs now to obscure the viewYet, when I look for my past, it’s blurred –Out of focus, even with new specs.Did I know, I wonder, the old folks of my youth?The war and the means-tested, ragged thirtiesConverted them from Church to Labour –And if they prayed, it was for a better lifeFor their kids, not a better beyond for them.My central-heated life and a university degreeWould, I’m sure, be success made fleshIf they could greet me on that hill.

But maybe, when all’s said and done,They would see my four grandkids smiling,Calling me back from the tangle of trees -And then they too would smile as I stood onThe fringe of that dark and foreboding wood.