Longlisted for the Write about Walking A/way competition 2023
Parts of me are old as trees, that creak and knock, and want to sit dreaming in the sun, while crowds of children shout and play, keep me awake seeking games and lessons, and need to run. Tired and gnarled in twiggy woods, as puppet butterflies bounce on strings in the morning glare, greybeard evergreens make a green tunnel into the heart of me, trouble my eyes and disturb my hair. Or under blankets of messy stars, nightshade sleeping draughts of dolorous concoction drip in my lazy dreams, while flowers grown high above the window tap and demand companionship. I cannot walk away. Even in silent meditations my stillness is all tic and sway, a constant flickering trance along a vagal memory of walking done and yet to do, incessant tyrant rhythms of step and dance. I cannot help but carry on, and walk, run, play ‘til some yet unforeseen lightning flash brings my branches down, to be a brown house for ceaseless insects, in the striving weeds and fertile ash.
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