poetry@cheviotwalks

 

 

 

 

TOWARDS GAINS LAW

 

It is December.

The weak sun stains the winter sky.

A rainbow climbs a distant hill.

The rough track twists,

dips down to burn

and bracken breaks beneath the stride.

A grouse breaks free.

 

It is December.

The wild wind packs a knockout punch,

strikes clean and strong.

I am no southpaw,

trained to duck and dive.

I have no bee-like sting,

no bag of tricks.

 

It is December.

I box above my weight.

 

 

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