Blurred years roll in and out of mind.
Old stones thrown to ripple stilled lakes
show, how supple experience can be.
Pleats in the cloth were absurdities.
Revealed, in retrospect, as feet
firming the sand of our foundation.
Now we stand on stone, solid
as Stockport’s viaduct on hay.
The river flows below us, as we watch
guttering lanterns float away,
and trains cross to other stations
knowing, that here is where we’ll stay.