The end of it
by Andy MacGregor

Nothing in the end of it
prepared me for the beginning:

not the fire in the street
or the unexpected calm

as your last reproachful glance
sent me back to that first time

on the bus going north
when you laid your head

on my shoulder and I felt
that thrill, a vibration,

not knowing if it was you
or me, or just the miles

vanishing beneath us
into the unseen distance.

Then there was that night
when, out of nowhere,

you went on and on
obscurely about the past

being always present—
how every moment

is that one original
instant of creation

still unfolding endlessly,
but showing a different face.

I listened dutifully of course
while my tea grew cold

and the evening yawned
blackly outside the window.

No doubt it’s as true now
as it was all that time ago:

there among the shining stars
are some that no longer exist

but as an ever-expanding wave
from a hollow centre,

and here I am still waiting
for the world to begin.

PAINTING: To the Morning Star by Mordecai Ardon (1968).

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: My poetry is mostly inspired by nature and science, and often takes a philosophical turn whether I want it to or not. Themes of (mostly doomed) romance have a habit of imposing themselves too. This poem is no exception.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Andy MacGregor is an ecologist and philosopher living in Glasgow, Scotland, where he spends his free time writing poems, playing classical guitar, and being mocked mercilessly by his two teenage children. His poems have been published by Black Bough Poetry and otherwise appear almost daily on his Twitter account @macgregor_andy.