Sometimes when dreaming, I run.

Gently enjoying the beauty of the land

and that youthful ease and grace, once found.

No tiring muscles or loss of breath,

just flowing movement and cool air.

 

The pace so easy that feet fly –

in great strides, devouring the miles

that escape beneath my heels.

The joy of strength and fulfillment.

The joy of a vanished youth.

 

On and on I run breathing easily –

as in days long gone; now dearly missed.

Deep draughts of breath,

fresh in my mouth,

the outward flow a joyful song.

 

A hill conquered, leaning into the slope,

now the crest, left briefly alone.

On into the down grade with lengthened stride,

feet fleetingly in contact with winding path;

a sense of almost falling down the hill.

 

Toes gently touching exposed root –

steps, etched in the ground, a pattern.

I feel weightless, another dimension.

Bent; elbows ease away from sides,

hands and fingers stretch to sense?

 

A gift, perhaps a thermal or magic

and before I know it my fingers read the

rising air mass and I am one with it,

soaring effortlessly. The ground falls away

and my arms flex to the lift,

I am soaring, soaring in the joy of flight.

 
 
David Garlick, Sidney, August, 2007