The Runner
I am the runner.
I glide down the street with ease,
elbows slightly bent,
arms swinging rhythmically.
I nod and smile at neighbours
as they admire my even stride.
My legs, long and slim,
strong but not overly muscled,
pump up and down.
Smooth, tanned skin glows
with the exertion.
Sockless feet,
clad only in white canvas shoes
scarcely touch down
as I cover more ground.
I turn and enter the park,
race across the fields,
up and down the paths,
sailing over logs,
splashing through puddles.
My white shoes, incredibly,
still white.
Bees escort me as
I power up a hill
clothed in daisies and red clover.
The miles fall behind me.
I’m not even breathing hard.
Looking down
I can see the muscles in my thighs
rippling with each movement.
My long hair streams
behind me,
floating on the air,
in slow motion waves,
like in a movie.
I open my eyes
and stare at the dull white ceiling.
The foam barricades
that keep my legs straight and still
come away.
I manoeuvre,
inch by inch,
and finally,
I’m sitting
on the edge of the bed.
The walker is there.
In my reclining chair
exhausted,
I close my eyes,
and once again,
I am the runner.
Based on a dream I had after the double hip replacement surgery June 2007.
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