Ings Walks
by Justin Hill
[ poetry - january 07 ]
I go back to see him
every year or so,
playing rugby on the pitch
along the side of the Ouse.
Or that day in the summer
when he went to play cricket
- he was always afraid of the ball -
When his side was batting
he talked with friends,
dreamt by himself
of the life to come.
If you look very hard
you can still see those dreams,
despite the new housing development,
just there in his head.
It was never a long list:
write a book, read, travel, be happy -
I look for awhile
wonder how I am doing
walk back up the river,
leave him sitting with friends
in the June sunlight
on the close cut grass.
