Walkman

“Hello again,” he said warmly, to himself,

Or to one of his selves.

The one who’d been waiting outside by the front gate since last night.

Who walked the dark, shiny streets, skipped over puddles,

Hurried furtively across junctions, under street lamps,

Night after night, walked and only ever walked,

Had walked the hills and clifftops in winds and rain,

And before that had walked along curbs and cracks in the pavement in time for tea,

Humming morning assembly hymns as he went,

Foreseeing so many meetings like these…

And off he went, together,

Extending his stride, filling his chest with still, frosty air,

Picking it up again, like yesterday.

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