Last Things

They must be checking our location on the map,
taking leave of their loved ones,
asking the way to our house.

They are not in any hurry to get here.
They have a certain schedule to stick to.
They know where we are.

If we try to see them, outlined against the horizon,
they stand completely still, looking innocent.
If we turn our backs to them, they move
forward again, more confident.

One evening, when nothing much is going on,
they detach themselves from the surrounding countryside
and begin their advance across no-man's-land.
They make themselves known to us in a ripple of ill-wind.

by Hugo Williams

Other poems of WILLIAMS (12)

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