STILL WALKING
For John
Always pacing
always measuring out the room,
measuring the Pennines
measuring your words.
Always gaunt,
but jaunty, that spring in your step, that turf stride.
Lean, and bent
on whatever you were bent on,
for it was always a three-quarter profile,
face averted, eyes on the next hill, thought
an underground stream, laugh
like a starter motor,
never catching. Until
the last day, the shock of
depth, eyes pooling in recognition.
Face on. Walking still.
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