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.