(after Tracey Herd)
most, is not the goal, the finish-line, but the start,
(do any of us know where we are heading),
the assortment of people, the runners I mean,
stretching, going for last minute pees,
doing their weird warm-up routines,
and the straggle of loved ones congregating in Holyrood Park.
I barely remember the first five miles down Edinburgh’s
deep streets, I remember hitting the coast, the exposure
at Portobello beach, the surprise of space, the sudden release
of the sea’s shore. I thought then of Larkin’s lines, (I was running well),
of more and ever more, I remember this and the sun’s stinging kiss
and the denim dark patina of the Firth’s sheen,
people calling my name, later, as though in a dream,
this late May day bursting its unbottled bliss.
