Pier Pressure 
Pier Pressure
by Selwyn Veater
Light ripples on my keyshanks as I check
them on the way to work. Shopfronts
drive past me, offices moving
in the windows of cars and buses.
I stand on a corner, waiting to cross
behind the bus I've just jumped off, see
the whole street swinging in its windscreen
as it takes the corner, like the world turning.
Walking the last hundred yards or so,
past overplayed adverts for our cinema,
the football ground and such, I see how much
they're only concepts, tangibly expressed,
abstract aims that now I'll never make.
Like you, I fold back time to when I could
still hope to pick up some reflected edge.
That's long since passed, I think they call it age.
Instead, I think my son walks just the way
I used to do, or how my daughter smiles;
tug the heartstrings most remembering floors
of shadow, imprecisely shifting
in that patch of woodland where we loved.
So much is passing or has long since passed.
But, of course, that's no reflection on you.