Friday afternoon. That last period.
Me in the hall with all of them for films.
Pupils with Special Needs all set for home.
Their weekly jolly - certainly not mine!
The films were always thirteen minutes short.
(How did they know to edit them that length?)
To take us to the final bell I'd run
the last ten minutes backwards just for fun.
It was the moment they'd been waiting for:
they'd roar to see a London bus in all
its redness running backwards in the street,
but Jumbos landing backwards at Heathrow
elicited no sign of mirth at all.
Then divers as they flew feet first back to
their boards would have them screaming from pure joy,
but Welsh Guards marching backwards... not a titter.
If we could run time backwards in the way
I ran those films, I wonder how we'd see
our past events unravelling as if
in time's great mirror... how would feelings run?
Would tragedies turn into triumphs, and
would our finest moments end as comedy?
Perhaps this world's alternative is that:
a universe of inverse time that over-runs - not opposites.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
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