Clay
And so it was with every passing year
more and more the fear
(is that too strong?) yes the fear
of going back knowing it might hurt
to walk back along
that old dirt path beside the canal
that damp stone smell in early spring
that length of thin brown water
slumped in the dark
of a sun-sharp day
deep in the shade of the high brick wall
of the old steel factory with its windows broken
all but one still lit
chunking out the last rivets of the century
in that soft historical dusk
in which I knew even then I knew
that it might hurt the day I went back
and had my heart rearranged
by all that was and was no longer there
how would I bear that sudden blossoming
spring smell the clay and damp
early evening smell that place old
before its time its line of dead water
but then it came I knew it would
nobody made me just one day
there with time and a certain indifference
to my life as a thing lived
by any particular person including myself
so there I was walking the path
towards the place (my heart starting to go a little)
when I fell in step behind a man
carrying a red bucket in one hand
in the other a blue mop
all new and wrapped in plastic
and as I slowed and stared at the back
of his crumpled suit I started to think
about the man and the moment
he realised that he was the one
that no one else was going to do it for him
and the time had come so here he was
walking towards what had to be done
towards the newly-converted factory flats
where a floor lay waiting
and I knew and perhaps he did too
that no matter what he did no matter
how many times he went back
and forth with the mop
the floor would never be the same again
not like it was when it was first laid down
before all the walking
or before when it was just tiles piled up on pallets
still warm from the cutting
or before before when it was part of the damp earth
upon whose surface a person would walk
afraid they might get hurt