I thought I was at the end:
the end of time,
the end of life,
the end of the line.
But I was at the beginning.
You’ve got to start somewhere.
I started here, started again, down by the water, the river.
I thought I hallucinated myself on the water of the Clyde,
on a raft, going into the city.
I gave myself a wave as I drifted by.
When I looked over, I smiled a toothless grin.
My eyes were blank, empty.
I saw it on the news: they pulled a body from the river.
Or was it a mannequin?
Sometimes I dream,
in the light hours,
that I am on a boat,
out of the city,
down the coast, home.
I wake up couch surfing in Partick,
or on the bus,
or in the library.
Sometimes you can’t go back.
That little pub on the corner,
drinking away my days,
drinking away my time,
my money,
my looks,
such as they are.
My liver is operating under protest,
much like my mind, much like the rest of me.
Analogue in a digital world,
as I carried on oblivious to the world around me,
as it shrank from the work,
from the stage,
from home to the bar,
to the glass,
the bottle,
the end.
You could leave it there if you like.
But it would be a lie.
That’s not the end of the story.
I’ve seen that story before,
like sickness on the wall,
like piss from the radio,
like blood in the lungs:
grace and love
and blood and tears
and guilt and pain
and forgiveness.
And luck,
lots of luck,
and some bloody stubborn people
that wouldn’t let it go.
Get up,
get up off the floor,
get up you son of a bitch,
get up.
Regret, mistakes,
pain, hurt,
love, forgiveness,
light,
a blinding light,
a hospital bed.
“We can’t keep saving you, man.
The country is on its knees.”
The old guy in the next room, light escaping.
Get up,
get up off the floor.
The nurse, the nurse,
she whispered in my ear,
“Get up you son of a bitch, get up, because I love you.”
I woke up in the house, on our couch.
Heard you calling from garden,
your nurse’s uniform on the line.
Sunshine in your eyes.
I am a lucky one.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 