The Beat

The beat,

played by my feet,

is achingly familiar.

No longer on track and street,

the beat is open on fell and mountain.

No more pounding mile of pavement and concrete.

I bound and play. On springy purple Heather.

Through muddy bogs and paths that wind in scree.
To tops. And ridge lines.

No longer only going left.

Or running to the side being splashed by monstracised machine.

Chasing my friend. Of black and ears.

She runs far quicker than me.

We see history and geology.
Roman Forts on mountain passes looking to the sea.

Rounded fell tops smoothed out, internal conglomerate.

Distance eaten by strong legs. Miles met headlong and with force