Another pilgrimage to the fading…
I pierce the rain at eighty miles
an hour, where flow hushes thoughts.
Splashes hound my tyres, as I skim
past nervous drivers and their brake lights.
I collect him at the airport.
My journey pales to his in miles.
“In the end, our travels will all
end.” I wince at his platitudes.
Well, I think, he took the trouble
to fly in, overtaking death it seems.
She has weeks, maybe days left —
I dare not make any more predictions.
I find it distasteful and I’m
not sure exactly why. Perhaps
because he have been away for
fifteen years and suddenly now
is the time to come and visit.
“I couldn’t put it off any longer,”
he says and then expects me
to reassure him or agree.
I nod and floor it, swerving
from the fools in the rain.