In the valley of the shadow
hang the dead
and only fools go
but seeing is believing
so I leave the dead behind me
going on but no so blindly that
I cannot see the trail.
I run pale before the ice sheets
steeped in mystery, disease free,
but it’s only me,
so sliding into that which has been hiding
through the blinding night of snowdrifts
on the wings of eagles lifting me and with
hawks eyes watch the sunrise through
the valley of the shadow
it’s like being back in Harlow or
in Harlem or in a thousand other
I’ve been but never got to know.
I’ve seen them come and go
and I’ll see them yet once more
before the doors are closed
behind me and I move along quite
knowing where I have to go.
© 2017, John Smallshaw.