The Limits
Thursday, early, you reach them. Sometime
between seven and eight. Somewhere between
earth and sky, the one becoming the other
a hundred yards further on, the whole scene
a sculpture in ice, and you feel it slide away
from under you. Not the way you’re led to imagine,
an abrupt stop in the motion of the world, or time,
the sped-through showreel of memory, a feeling
of unconditional love and a glimpse of the light
at the far end of everything. The opposite, in fact.
They both roll on without you while you wait –
wheel loose and useless in both hands,
headlights eyeing you greedily up ahead – for the bite
of traction, for the cold earth to catch
and hold you again, then you’re speeding away
from what you’ll barely recall six months from now,
while the next time lies beyond a thin white line,
where snow is already folding upon snow.
* Matt Merritt is a poet and journalist from Leicester. His first full collection, Troy Town, was published by Arrowhead in 2008, and a chapbook, Making The Most Of The Light, by HappenStance in 2005. A second collection is forthcoming from Nine Arches. He blogs at http://polyolbion.blogspot.com/