I went out for the last time
from the white gate with peeling paint
with no more reason to stay
each having been laid aside quietly, slowly
until nothing more bound me to the place
I went out the white gate.
And pushing my pack across the back streets
the ways learned over many journeys
now to be laid aside quietly, slowly
each in its own time, unlearned
and forgotten in a space of weeks
as I push my pack across the streets.
And as I come to a road I’ve known,
though not very well, it must be said
I am joined at once with my selves from all ages
each treading a lonely path away
for the last time,
from some situated equilibrium –
and in our solidarity, though it is a shock
we march together, breathless.