Sitting
at last, gathering breath,
From
the long climb up the track,
Staring
across the ancient landscape,
Allowed
at last to look back.
Towards
the village steeple,
Rising
through late morning haze,
Shimmering
in the distance,
Attracting
my sun-guarded gaze.
Calves
and feet gently aching,
Boots
well covered in fine dust,
Kicked
up by my progress
Through
the chalk’s crumbling crust.
Orchids
peering shyly through long grass,
In
this upland meadow where I wait,
Tiny,
quick flashes of colour,
Right
down the track to the gate.
Butterflies
in gaudy profusion
Flutter
round, ignoring the heat,
And a
fox flees into the wood,
Less
than fifty yards from my seat.
At
bottom, down in the cornfield,
Seeming
like dots, are boxing hares,
Standing,
running, darting and feinting,
Occupied
with mating cares.
Recovered,
exhaling slowly,
Back
on my feet, I continue the climb,
The
steady tramp, tramp of the boots,
Marking
out the rhythm of time.
Head gently
clearing, eyes lifting,
Up to
the summit of the hill,
Driving
aching legs forward,
With my
sheer force of will.
No
thought for the tension and stress,
That can
clutter my mind most days:
Exhaustion
cleans it all out;
My
soul calming in many ways.
Daily
detoxification
Is to
be found on this high ground,
And
the beat of tired feet,
Works
like a drug, leaving me sound.
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
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