Finchmoor Church

I reach the wooden booth just after five
It's been abandoned
And sits upon the ice
Surrounded by the early darkness of the winter tide

I have not seen a single soul for miles
As I struggled
Towards the coming night
I faced a freezing easterly that stung my skin like
lice

I turn around and see a distant spire
Silhouetted
Against the dusky sky:
The brown-brick church I left to skate the fifty-five
mile ride

I leave the empty checkpoint and I slide
Without effort
Between the narrow isles
I pick up speed like slowly rolling down a
mountainside

I bend and put my hands on my behind
In a posture
That must have been designed
To move a simple human like the tail behind a kite

The pitch-black ice below reflects the shine
Of moon and stars
Its dark depth deceives my eyes
Like looking at a discotheque from way up high at
night

The speeding islands join in solid lines
Ever faster
It feels as if I rise
Like slipping through a funnel that's been greased
with grimy slime

I look up and I see the sky at night
Moving in on me
I'm uncommonly light
It seems as if I'll hit the spire head on in
full-blown flight.