Blues

…the flecks of mud that paint their faces like splashes from nature’s easel, whilst blades of grass and twisted root tangle and turn into laces green, to tie around feet and ankle; these hill shaped blues that pound and pace over field, cobble and path, collecting pebbles, marsh and clods; a footprint left in the earth, then mapped and mirrored under arches; these blue mounds that take toes when sore and keep them warm in rain, mist or heat, in late night jogs with flour for breath; these tor shaped blues that hold my soles like gloves, as a friend’s hand in times of need; these blue, mountain shaped comrades that push me over finish lines and through thresholds, that suffer dirt and sweat and a frustrated boot or kick back into the garden; these two blues that help refresh my mind and keep rhythm to every beat or gasp, that are better medicine than any pill prescribed, that neither moan, criticise nor protest…