GATEWAY

It was all about to begin.

To be twelve years old on a summer afternoon

while the sun was still high

and the sun was hurrying down

was a flight through space

to an exciting destination.

The two grown ups and I had walked down

that grass track through the unthinned fir plantation

which kept silence for our footfall

on rubberised turf, and my young calves

contracting sprung me ahead of them

towards the gate.

Gate of the future, it was,

swinging me smoothly upon lichened frame

to let us into the field

above the great square coppice

and Tank Valley.

We didn’t go on,

just stayed in the gateway

as the sun hurried down,

infusing us in primrose yellow.

The grownups had stopped to talk.

I either was not listening or else have forgotten

what they said.

I’m sure I wasn’t listening:

It was as if I’d swung into Delphi

and the oracle had told me what was in store –

not a dull career as teacher or shoulder-pad machinist

or Grimsby fisherman or clerk,

but a life as primrose as this,

its green corn stiffly unstirring,

grass juice between toes

and a looking forward

that was more than hope –

more like an evening gate.

It was all about to begin.