On the way for Geoff Park On the way to Mein Street, everyone seems unnaturally well and strong. That elegant girl, swinging her bag as she crosses the road in front of me; that lean school-boy, slouching by the lights, his shirt-tail out and his face shining with a cheeky thought. They are all on their way somewhere, lit up by their beautiful intent. Purpose drives them on through the sunny afternoon. Observe how they glow. Admire their dance through the traffic, certain it will wait for them. They have no idea why I carry Billy Collins’ poems and a box of chocolates. Their insouciance is a blessing. It has not yet occurred to them that we are all on our way to the hospice, one way or another.
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