Christopher Haywood Poet Narrative

The End of a Race

The stadium lights have a flicker, a stutter, 
The track is a ribbon of cracked, dusty clay. 
The crowds are but ghosts in a low, hollow mutter, 
As the gold of the afternoon withers away. 
The runners are few, with their shadows grown long, 
Their lungs are a bellows of thistles and grit, 
The rhythm of breath, once a thunderous song, 
Is a candle that struggles to stay briefly lit.
The baton is heavy, a cold, leaden weight,
 Passed from a trembling hand to a palm. 
They run not for glory, nor challenge of fate, 
But to hold back the encroaching, industrial calm. 
The lanes are erasing, the chalk turns to mist, 
And the finish line tape is a tattered, white ghost. 
The wind through the bleachers is sharp, iron-kissed,
A mourning for those who have honored the post.
The history of strides is a book in the fire, 
Of records and legends now turning to ash. 
The spirit that soared on a wing of desire 
Is slowed by the salt and the sting of the lash. 
One runner remains in the thickening gloom, 
With no one to catch and no one to chase,
A solitary pulse in a cavernous room, 
The final, slow beat of a vanishing race.
The stopwatch is frozen, the silver is tarnished, 
The laurels are brittle and brown on the brow. 
The world that the victors once brilliantly burnished 
Is silent, and empty, and effortless now. 
A stumble, a sigh, and a settling of dust,
As the last of the line meets the earth’s quiet breast. 
The spikes turn to orange, a coating of rust, 
And the long-distance runners are finally at rest.

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