He ran so far,

He ran so far,

Further in his mind

Than in actual fact

But it seemed such a long way

Across the farm

To the farthest fields.

He remembered them in childish dreams

So far from waxen dread.

There was no meaning

In dreaming

No understanding of dying

Not then.

When he was young

Coffins were carried out in silence,

Old friends with aching backs

As stiff as a starched collar

Were always there, on hand

To bear the weight.

Plain-faced and dry-eyed

Hollowed out wives

In widows weeds

Stood,

Old before their prime

Smelling of camphor and carbolic

With reddened hands

Wringing,

As broken hearts fluttered,

Black crows with clipped wings.

Too many poor men die

Behind a plough

Too many wives to grieve them

Too many leeches with bloodlust

Buying up the land before

The grave was fully dug.

Children, set aside and allowed to play

Hide and seek

As far south as the orchard

Given a flea in the ear if they went too far

But never told a word

Even though they knew

Enough to know

Although this was not their time

They too would have their day

Unless they could avoid it.

Did Superman grow old?

The pain of death is hidden

Until it isn’t

So it was said.

But as the years roll by

The meaning of it infiltrates his waking

He can hear the whispers

In the thickening of shadows

And he has developed

An uneasy fear of letting go

When there seems so little

Left to hold

Of any real consequence.

Too many linger on the edge of reason.

He wondered who would know

What it felt like

Does anyone survive this?

Did they all remember

Being allowed to run free

Were the screams of little children

Howling with delight

A hindrance to the business of passing

Or a comfort?

He found it hard to come to terms

With any answer

Not today

As he was sure that he would be yoked in

Behind the plough

Tomorrow.

And if truth be told

He would rather he let go

Standing up

Than lying low

In his old bed

On this dark and ghostly night

With land to work, come morning.