Roundway Hill
Sitting
at last, gathering breath,
From
the hard climb up the track,
Staring
across the ancient landscape,
Allowing
myself at last to look back
Towards
the far village steeple,
Rising
through late morning haze,
Shimmering
in the distance,
Attracting
my sun-dazzled gaze.
Calves
and feet gently aching,
Boots
well covered in fine dust,
Kicked
up by my plodding progress
Through
the chalk’s crumbling crust.
Orchids
peer shyly through the long grass
Of
this upland meadow where calmly I wait,
Tiny,
quick flashes of colour,
Right
down the track to the gate.
Butterflies
dance in gaudy profusion,
Fluttering
round, ignoring the heat,
And a
fox flees into the wood,
Less
than fifty yards from my seat.
Far
below me, down in the cornfield,
Seeming
like dots, are boxing hares,
Standing,
running, darting and feinting,
Pre-occupied
with Spring-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 long hill,
Driving
my aching legs forward,
With the
sheer force of my will.
No
thought for the tension and stress,
That can
clutter my mind these days:
Exhaustion
drives it all out,
And
calms my soul in so many ways.
Daily
detoxification
Can
be found on this high ground,
And
the tiredness of an aching body,
Works
like a drug, leaving me sound.
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