The track runs off into a distance that my eyes cannot see, I walk a measured pace, stunted by the shadow that the sun casts,
but at last, I reach that distance only to find it was no distance at all,
the track runs on.
Under the shade of an oak, elm or yew tree and it could be any one of the three,
opening a lunch provided for me by the church and its army,
I tuck into a cheese sandwich,
tasty and washed down by a bottle of slightly warm water which could be of the holy variety.
Later as the sun shivers in the evening air
I head to where the bus is waiting,
the track runs on ahead.
© 2020, John Smallshaw.