At The Broad End Poem by Grahame Lockey

With a wind tan of what gets to him, he
turns his back on what is beckoning,
knowing it's bringing, red-lettered,
a date with it - one he may never learn.

At the broad end, we're one lost in the rest –
there, survival is a friendly face. Hands
are there to lull us from thinking few
will care, if, head on our knees, we

lose the gist we've lived to look for.
Hands are there to close our fingers
when we signal to what touched our
backs as children, for a bristle-rigid

brush with whatever it is we tingle to
that shadows us. With snarlgripped
spade, if we start shovelling our soil -
those hands will throw it back at us.


(1990. Cambridge)