The long line of the years is really a cracked pavement

that anyone could trip on if they don’t keep ’em peeled

and you can’t sue the Council for your own past,

unless they happen to be directly responsible.

When I go back down my road I weld my eyes

to each upraised stone and follow my father’s bidding,

lifting my feet well clear. I’ve spent enough time

spreadeagled in a pratfall that leaves me smooching

the very ground that’s laid me low. I suggest you

do the same. In your case I know the topography

makes my street look like a runway. If I can’t stop

you venturing, period, which I reckon’s the ideal,

please, pretty please, let me counsel you this once:

imagine there’s a handrail and grip it hard as a flint

held by someone desperate for fire; and crouch

as you go, like the title sequence from M*A*S*H.