At The Entrance
Standing at the entrance, next to the giant statues, he ...
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At The Entrance
by Wolfgang Glinka
School gates,
Forbidding, finger pinching.
The drive dares, sneers.
Rhododendrons blush and willows weep,
Crunching under foot in new black shoes.
Starched collar and bleeding neck,
Grown up now but small and new.
Sat at the start, by the Western door,
The chapel pew, gothic, hard-hearted,
The sun shut out but bursting through.
A train and a case,
Crossing the nation through mystery towns.
It is all arrival, nothing behind.
The thrill diminished by that empty cab,
The driver defecates and reads the news.
Welcome - slurring words and an offered drink,
Polished anecdotes, their jobs explained.
Disappointments hiding in a pint of beer,
Biographies, a mix of fact and dream.
Salaried, respected, they fall from their stools.
Nowhere as strange as those first encounters.
Your turn comes, your time in the light.
You know the rules, play the game,
Better than that, you learn the tricks,
The survival, the camouflage, the protected heart.
How strange then after all this time,
Tight-rope perfected, never looking down,
Fluent of speech, defence and attack,
How strange after getting there, the top of the hill,
To find that sign: The Entrance.
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