Saturday, January 22, 2011
Half Marathon
Like a worn gravel; a white
gravely dust, stretching
to where the grass begins
at the foot of the hill. The bank sweeps
down to a scribble of plants,
and it smells. That’s
what’s left of where
I need to run. I’m focussing
on my breath, and the pain
trail branching into my lungs;
a sharp strap edging along the hip.
I stop here and look back, and see
figures bobbing out of the mirage.
Sweat stings my eyes. There’s a promise
here somewhere, it’s waiting
in the distance. It’s shaped
like an oil stain and hides
beneath the dried clay.
I’m off again; I see people
appear, screaming left
and right, with banners
and cars out over
the incline. I know
it will soon quieten
down and there won’t
be much more to it: this
vague track that tastes
like cement. I feel it through
the hairs on my arms.
Like a worn gravel; a white
gravely dust, stretching
to where the grass begins
at the foot of the hill. The bank sweeps
down to a scribble of plants,
and it smells. That’s
what’s left of where
I need to run. I’m focussing
on my breath, and the pain
trail branching into my lungs;
a sharp strap edging along the hip.
I stop here and look back, and see
figures bobbing out of the mirage.
Sweat stings my eyes. There’s a promise
here somewhere, it’s waiting
in the distance. It’s shaped
like an oil stain and hides
beneath the dried clay.
I’m off again; I see people
appear, screaming left
and right, with banners
and cars out over
the incline. I know
it will soon quieten
down and there won’t
be much more to it: this
vague track that tastes
like cement. I feel it through
the hairs on my arms.
// posted by George Manka @ 11:39 AM 
