I see you resting at peace, reaching ahead while
uncomfortably lying partially on the warm evening tarmac.
I imagine you never completed your journey
or took the opportunity to change direction,
to reach where you really want to be.
Were you escaping from a darkening shadow or in pursuit
of a plan lodged deep in your mind?
Glancing passed, our eyes meet and bring fear of what we both see –
a sharing of tears from hope and fear.
Resting motionless as the distracted traffic dashes by,
only a few catching a glimpse of your untamed body –
lost, sodden, grasping beyond the verge.
No one thinking to stop.
I feel guilty now that we did not take the time
to see if you needed help, but chose to shrug and carry on.
I am like everyone else who did not stop to give assistance
in a way befitting of your elderly appearance.
As we drive past, your twisted body with its life
and sharp instinct taken from it,
you have come to settle your head, limp and heavy, on the coarse grass.
Hair grey but still holding onto streaks of black.
I cannot help but question if you too had had enough.
Others must have valued your life, while you are the one who took the step
to draw your unimaginable troubles to an end, there
between the ditch and road journeying ahead.
Your finality is hard to see.
I wonder if, somehow, this has brought some peace
through the fixed look of regret upon your face.
Clive Grewcock is a writer based in the Scottish Highlands with a particular interest in language and the way it can evoke a depth and emotion through creativity. "Poetry has a wonderful power in our world, not necessarily in a shouting way but also with subtlety and asking others to invest and bring something of themselves to the work. It is good to contemplate and consider through writing."