Roo Borson From: Night Walk, Selected Poems. Oxford University Press, Toronto, 1994.
Old shoes, where are you taking me now? You who've spent a night in the Pacific farther out than I dared to go -- and I found you again, bedraggled in the morning, separated from each other by fifty feet of beach, salt in all your seams, and sand, and seaweed. That time I thought you were lost for good. Old shoes, the first my grown feet accepted without the deep ache that comes of trying on what others have meant for me. Don't worry, it's me they're laughing at, those who find us unfashionable. Our last day upright on the earth we'll fit each other still. Don't let them trick you into sorrow. If they stow you in a box that's too small in the depths of some unfamiliar closet, remember the walks we took, the close companionship of shoes and feet. Remember the long mouthwatering days, each place we rested, just taking it in. We took it in for a reason, for the time when they'll stow us away where there is nothing to see, to do, to feel. And when you've relived it all as much as you need, when you tire of standing still, remember the imperceptible holes, how they tore and grew, the socks, pair by pair, those soft kittens that came between us, playful, how soon the walking wore them down.