The Poetry of Martin Fairclough...Honeypot Lane, 6.00am
Straining hard and looking ill,
He passed me as I climbed the hill.
His breathing comes as ghastly gasps
And in his hand a cloth he grasps
For dabbing at his pasty face
While keeping up his deadly pace.
I wonder what could be the force
That keeps him on this torture course,
When at his age men might retire
He feels the need to ache, perspire
And, even in the winter chill,
In shorts and shirt jog up the hill.
He passes me near every day
As he pounds along the healthy way.
I just plod on, for I'm not fit
Till now not even thought of it -
And judging from his look of pain
Should never think of it again.
