South

So my shoulder aches (the left one)

- it pokes incessantly  and a sleepyhead

stays awake. This train is full of scruffy

shoes and bad shaves - travellers - and the sky

a springtime blue wash. A southbound chugger heads

down into another country.  Andrew will be home now,

laughing more than most and feeling for rhythm

in a backbeat song or repetitive gearbox. He’ll be wearing

baggy pants and a bright shirt, chortling.

Perhaps he’s tickled by Angels or maybe doesn’t care

about death. When you choose such a fate, then you wouldn’t.

I fly backwards on this train, blind to what awaits

- and kind of not caring. People are reading screens,

papers, trendy magazines; all encoded.

There’s no conversation. Andrew will be getting ready to eat

with the full rhythm of a fine chew on every

forkful. Teasing the juice out. Maybe every

Angel needs a cascade of support. Choosing a

Down’s Syndrome lifetime will burn care

and levels of mercy sometimes unnecessary

for a warrior of the light.  But mostly his ears

are cocked for music and the heart of life,

pulsing energy in a basket of moments.

He rocked as a baby - full bodied – certainly

more than I rock with my aching shoulder and forever

rigid attempts on the guitar. But it’s the connection

he makes in the smile and a twinkle that carves

heart-to-soul and the beat, beat, beat

of warmth in the veins - to go further and longer

than any old southbound train. And his gift is to keep up

the fashion of a smile - or joy - until the chuckling carriage stops.