On our way to visit
the children's grandparents
in Frome
I catch a flash
of Death
through the window.
He stands in a ploughed field,
reaching to lay a white-twigged hand
on a chaffinch snipping at the new seeds
with its sharp beak.
For the next ten minutes
I can't speak.
'Daddy, Daddy, how many more stations
before-'
'Oh shut up, Gulliver!' I blurt.
I excuse myself, go to the toilet,
splash water not suitable for drinking
over my flushed face, try to stare myself
down in the mirror.
It makes things worse.
I've aged.
I'm looking more like Him everyday.
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