The Runner

by Clifford Larkins

In early morning I ran
blindly into mist and fog
and at night, through engulfing darkness
I ran, stumbling, reaching,
the obstacles unimaginable,
but I ran determined not to stop.
Other runners followed close behind
breathing the stale odor of despair.

Around the rain-soaked paths we pushed,
the pack thinning, the darkness prevailing.
I slipped and stumbled once again
reaching, only to grasp the cold remains
of a previous failure. On I ran,
the cold rain changing to a cold mist,
the fog lifting, slightly.

Around another turn
and at last, a blade of grass.
Up over the last hill,
the air clear now,
the others had faded.

I could see the finish line,
and my prize
now lay before me.
I staggered through dense overgrowth
slicing away at weeds and ferns
till, finally
I had run my course. My prize was there waiting,
its radiance blinding.

“© [Clifford Larkins] [1971].
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