Is
it all over? Is that all there is?
The
last Shuttle piggy-backed into a museum;
The
planets sunk back into the star-flecked gloom,
And
a cold look on the Moon’s cold face?
In
1969 I was dragged out of bed
By
my Dad, in the wee small hours,
To
watch a bit of film on a tiny screen.
By
the time I’d turned ten the last men
Had
walked there. I have lived to see
The
end of the Space Shuttle program, and the death
Of the first man to walk upon the Moon.
One
October evening in 2012
I
stood in my garden, clutching a mug
Of
coffee and jumping in place to keep warm:
Watching
the round, yellow rise of the moon
That
is now only the moon. My son
Asked
me what on earth I was doing?
On
earth. Grounded. Hugging the child
Who
is a child of the world that does not go to the Moon.
‘Saying
goodbye,’ I said. To the work, the plans
And
the dreams: the last, reflexive kick
Of
the Sixties. The end of an era.
The
passing of a good man, and the close
Of the
space program. I felt as though
Something
in me was ending too. But then
I
reminded myself of three far travellers. Two
Are
still travelling, Voyaging into the dark;
Carrying
what we thought was so important then:
The
plan, the dream, our vision of what we are.
The
third, this year, has made his final flight.
I
raised my coffee cup to the moon and grinned
At
its dear, familiar face. Of course the Moon
Is
only the moon, and yet it seemed that if only
I
reached out my hand I could take it to have and to hold.
I
put the moon in my pocket and closed my eyes.
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