Closed like confessionals, they thread <br />Loud noons of cities, giving back <br />None of the glances they absorb. <br />Light glossy grey, arms on a plaque, <br />They come to rest at any kerb: <br />All streets in time are visited. <br /> <br />Then children strewn on steps or road, <br />Or women coming from the shops <br />Past smells of different dinners, see <br />A wild white face that overtops <br />Red stretcher-blankets momently <br />As it is carried in and stowed, <br /> <br />And sense the solving emptiness <br />That lies just under all we do, <br />And for a second get it whole, <br />So permanent and blank and true. <br />The fastened doors recede. Poor soul, <br />They whisper at their own distress; <br /> <br />For borne away in deadened air <br />May go the sudden shut of loss <br />Round something nearly at an end, <br />And what cohered in it across <br />The years, the unique random blend <br />Of families and fashions, there <br /> <br />At last begin to loosen. Far <br />From the exchange of love to lie <br />Unreachable insided a room <br />The trafic parts to let go by <br />Brings closer what is left to come, <br />And dulls to distance all we are.<br /><br />Philip Larkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ambulances/
