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September 27, 2005

Early Morning Run

Both eyes open. Warmly tingling sleep competes with a cold world. The dog is caught under foot, keen and jingling. On the front step, rain spatters against brick. Feet pound up the road while a heart pumps and lungs breathe.

Into the gloam filled woods, bark softly yealding under foot. Yews form a canopy with gnarled roots. The path opens onto grassland. A little bug scurries over the green hand, watched benevolently. How could such a lover be taken for granted?

The sheep groomed grass gives way to a neck of chalk. Body drenched, wind howling, a luminous yellow walker bids good morning. Lights of the town are to the left, the sleeping hills to the right. Near the summit a question forms and the answer is accepted. Launched, legs flailing, time stands still.

Springing wildly back into the forest, each foothold is a moments rest. A deer leaps beside the path, precarious footholds chosen as needed. Approaching home, arms raised, this is victory. Warmth and food welcomes this returning knight.

"Lovely. It's beautiful poetry. [her mentor at Oxford] would recognise it as written by a son of mine, I think. He would remember my attempts. Write more, every day." — Mary


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