Desultory thoughts of the lonely long distance runner
Early twilight, and by the canal again. The lights of the boats start to glow as the first stars appear in the darkening sky. So many miles along this path and still so far to go.
A heron in shadow, vast, sharp beaked, prehistoric, lifts from the bank; wide wings beating the evening air.
Ancient eyes gaze down:
‘O foolish man why do you labour so?
I have lived for so long and you will for such a short time. I have seen nations rise and fall. I have heard the call of battle, seen victory and loss and heard the prayers of the saint. I have seen what you, trapped in your small world cannot: you are but a handful of dust.’
And yet here, along this bank the path goes on and on as if there was no other place, no other time just the sound of regular breathing and footfall on stony ground.
Dust, yes; but dust that for one brief moment can feel the gold of glory.
Got my race number for London this week – I’m 14453...
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