View from a Wheelchair

for a woman who fell from her horse

Grinding a death-way, aching, colliding . . .
for a dream-instant I am free,
out on the moorland, riding, riding.

I am awake to the jolt of the striding,
I am wherever I want to be.
Grinding a death-way, aching, colliding . . .

my day a goonshow of fractious sliding,
a blaze of heather I can see
out on the moorland, riding, riding.

Into the grave my night subsiding
casts a shadow back on me.
Grinding a death-way, aching, colliding . . .

I shall never come out of hiding.
Still I light out on a spree,
out on the moorland, riding, riding.

Never at one and ever dividing,
I and the rest of humanity
grinding a death-way, aching, colliding . . .
out on the moorland, riding, riding.