With the release of 'Rush' about the rivalry between motor racers James Hunt and Nicky Lauda, I thought it appropriate to make this poem a little more widely available. It was originally published in the first class Poetry Salzburg Review, in Spring this year.
The boy runs from the room with awful news,
awful thrilling news: a hero is dead.
“Jim Clark is dead,” he tells his mother
who is doing something in the kitchen.
He has dashed across the hall, and now
decades later only that moment remains:
you can see him fly from the green study
where all the books are, across the hall,
and disappear into the kitchen. The rest
you must imagine: the breaking of the news,
the telling of the news. Grey school shorts
flash across the hall. But it was a Sunday
and all at once history flattens into lie
the only truth remaining our mortality.
More about Jim Clark here.