2021.9 Impington

This is where I stopped before,
left leg trembling, hip socket whingeing.
“I, er, just need to sit for a bit.”
No need to tell him this was the furthest
I’d walked in months,
running the gauntlet of fears
known and unknown,
just to leave my house.

And now, solo, I’m crouched on this
misshapen heap of concrete,
luminous with several types of safety
(and the vasodilatation of the seriously unfit),
having spent the last 15 minutes
waiting for the 20 minute timer
to signal my retreat,
too fast for my own good,
It seems.

Birdsong twines with cut grass,
conversation courts a
cutting engine of some kind,
the Busway hisses with tires
large and small,
and some offshoot of the A14
grumbles with an unaccustomed
rush hour.

Normalcy sidles closer.
I am gross with inactivity,
this venture exceptional
where it used to be my daily
(later check reveals it’s half as far),
waiting for my cycling muscles
to grudgingly unwind
where they used to fly me,
prompted to this pass
as an excuse for poetry,
too conscientious for my own good.

Before I opened these notes
a dog trotted by,
good boy,
vest emblazoned with Best Friend,
tended by a man carrying his
every possession,
sleeping bag a flag
as he moved a well-worn groove
to semi-rural safety, off-track.
I no longer carry cash.
He never asked.
We nodded.

Soft drops dance on this screen
As the manual saw picks up
Its master’s cough
And I remind myself I’ve always liked
the glottal taste of rain,
trained myself to enjoy its
caress as a blessing through
many years spent second-guessing
Welsh weather,
too stubborn for my own good,
too good at making virtue of necessity.

But it’s time to go home:
to boxes
and still air
and silence.
I won’t mind it
this time, creaking to my feet.
Besides: I’ve always worn a mask
For this.

The prompt for today was to take a walk and write about it. I cheated and cycled.

The Busway, Impington. Bicycle poet’s own.