Thursday, August 16, 2012


The runner staggers; unsure, anymore, just where
his legs are - they used to be those things that moved
before lead started to fuse feet to ground
and roads melted and blurred, sloping away
from any known plane and shrinking all breath to effort.
Misaligned, his occasional limbs no longer combine.

How find your way at the end of the race
when your life has shrunk to the size of a pea
and you are nothing but dead weight -
falling shot trying for up?

My mother, wandering demented night corridors
in a place she doesn't recognise, talking to walls
in the hope they might remember her, shrinks daily.
Her race runs out now; ends in a quiet pool
she'll not understand, the muscle of her will
faltering, her tentative breath and eye floundering.

If you can't remember the course, what is it you carry over the line?

15 August 2012

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