The Last Toboggan Run (Poetry)

The hill has aged, its tallness shrunk away,
reclining its grass-seeded empty slope,
unvisited these later years by snow
and kids with tea trays carving a deep run
between the drifts.

Once word got round, soon kids on our estate
were queuing on the hilltop and the shrieks
rose louder than the whistle of the train
passing, hardly noticed in the rush
of stinging air and whiteness.

And then back up, the trudge, the steamy haul
puffing out excitement in a cloud
of boasting, bent-backed figures spaced
and strung in a long loop,
a cold conveyor winding.

That afternoon was one long whoop
of thrill and terror, trousers soaked
and turning stiff with rolled-in ice
as sport continued. No one saw
the woman on the bridge.

We threw ourselves, each one in turn,
anticipating fast descent,
speeding down the hard-packed run,
careless of the wind's bone-chill through
sweaters, shirts and vests.

So intent, not one of us could claim to see
her fall, her contemplated dive
onto the rails beneath the train, only the screech
of too-late brakes, perhaps the engine driver's cry
marked her well-timed drop.

Our mothers came, drawn by the wail of ambulance
and police cars, gathering their kids
and turning heads carefully away,
tutted at the state of us, almost lost for once
for anything to say.

One child missed it all, her wheelchair set discreet
beside plain front room curtains, looking out
on a deserted street, waving at nothing,
a face by the window, motherless now,
and smiling at the snow.