Just over this hill, my father was killed
When a train hit his car at a crossing.
There, many years later,
One could still find a sign –
Rusted, beaten, broken –
Instructing one to stop, look and listen.
As a boy, I used to run tumbling
Down this hill, across a strong winter light,
My hands flung wide, bits of snow
And black shadows racing behind me.
I felt severed from the world
And still do now, my hands
In air, reaching for something.