Sunday, 7 February 2010
re POEM 15
Crook back (made worse
with a two-hour vacuuming
spree yesterday), seethes
in pain, a gravelly crunch,
fierce with each step along
Salford Quays canal pathway.
The metallic scent of white
gulls lined along a jetty
and seaweed-coated debris,
momentarily distracts ache
settled at the seat of my spine.
I exhale, turn slightly and catch
the gaze of a man with a bullish
face and heavy-rimmed frames
nursing a fishing tackle. He nods,
bends to fix his stare on the rods
splayed around his Wellington boots.
Again, I inhale, push my form
forward, resist the temptation
to pause or teeter to a halt; ‘no
pain, no gain’, I clutch this familiar
mantra knowing I must endure three
months of training for the event in May.