Autumn Gold

Long Eaton ParkRun 7 October

Autumn Gold

As golden leaves begin to slowly fall,

the runners stretch and bend,

With thoughts of sizzling bacon cobs awaiting at the end.

In lurid technicolor the people come to run

Excited chatter fills the air in the bright October sun

Elites are bouncing, anticipating, the reward from all their training

Whilst hounds are yelping, happily; leashes all a’straining

Muscles tense as runners wait,

their fingers poised on Garmin

Mums encourage one another,

while babies are alarming

Clock strikes 9 and off they go,

a blur of Lycra neon

I shout aloud amongst the crowd

and cheer the number 3 on

At halfway mark the cowbell clangs inspiring weary faces

Applause and cheers are not reserved, we’re there for all the paces

First across the bridge appears,

exerting power and energy

His focused eyes unwavering,

his driving stride in synergy

Sprinting to the finish line,

he crosses at a canter

Whilst others chase his rapid pace

to cries of friendly banter

Pacers drag a following of eager PB chasers

25 or 45, result brings happy racers

A hiccup in the funnel, runner fails to take a token

Sync is out but never fear, we’ll fix what has been broken

Tail Walkers arrive at last, position 407

Selfies snapped commemorate, they’re all in 7th Heaven

But now the work must really start

To scan, reorder tokens

Upload the stats to state the facts

For the runners who’ve awoken

And braved the chilly morning

To release their own potential

Syncing all the finish times is totally essential

Email tells your time and pace

And urges you to better

Even more determined now

To be a PB getter!

But whether running in a crowd

Or striving on your own

You’ve exceeded the achievements

Of the folks who stayed at home!

India

On endless rich, deep carpet pile

To endless polished marble mile

Excitedly we stride

Towards a wall

Of glass and steel

Which effortlessly glides

 

Assaulted by the heat and smell

The noise, the fuss, the clamour

The poorest-poor lie unnoticed

Besides the gold and glamour.

 

I taste the air, its fragrance thick

With car exhaust and turmeric

A thousand fossil bonfires

Fill the air and shroud the glow

Of burning incandescent orb,

Translucent orange/yellow

 

The taxi swiftly zips along

The fresh new tarmac highway

With little dwellings here and there

And kids in every byway

 

Holy cow!

The hornéd one

Strolls slowly down the middle

As if she knows she’s deity

And we’re all second fiddle!

 

Incessant drone 

Of blaring horn

From tuk-tuk, car and lorry

Don’t sound in anger

But to say “I’m turning right or overtaking,

I’m really very sorry!”

Permanent the smoky haze

Hangs low like ochre, cigarette days

The cricket wing cacophony 

I cannot get it off of me

The memory of that magic land

That river valley

That henna hand

Is permanently etched upon my very soul

A land so young, so curious

And yet so very old

So wise and yet so much to learn

As dreams take me back 

Still smouldering it burns

Our silver bird punches right through

An arrowhead to skies of blue

And what beholds me 

I’m agog!

A string of pearls 

Beyond the smog!

Just north of this smoky dome-like layer

Lies the entire Himalaya

A chain of snow-capped rocky mounts

These craggy forts the very founts

Of a thousand little tributaries

Which feed this vast expanse

As stream becomes a surging torrent

The mighty rivers all advance 

A mighty warlike tribal drum 

The beating of her steady thrum 

The twisting canyons she has carved 

Tower high above and barely halve

The distance down to where she flows 

Each bend a turn which petrifies 

As down you look into her eyes 

The snarling crocodilian river

So sharp, so fierce it makes you shiver

Yet high on Gangtok’s verdant top

A city stands so tall so bright

A city bursting full of light

In ‘Switzerlandish’ type Tibet

This Alpine paradise is set

The mists which here 

Taste oh so clear 

Are far removed from distant Delhi

Make poinsettia grow to 6 feet high 

And flora blooms a’plenty!

So haunting is this ancient land

Her vibrancy, her laugh, her dance

She penetrates my night visions

And puts me in a trance

I’ll always cherish knowing her

Her song, her joy, her art

Eternally her sun will burn

Within my aching heart.

P J Deakin 2016 ©

Where Does The Buzzard Go?

Where does the Buzzard go in wintertime?
Where does he take his mighty wing?
In the Summer he may soar
In the blue forever more
Yet in Winter he is seldom seen at all!

Swift and swallows all migrate
To a sunnier climate
In the land of pyramids and crocodiles
Golden Eagles have their glens
Harriers, their marshland fens
But where do Buzzards go their time to while?

Do they retreat into their nest
Wrap up warm and take a rest
From the icy blast the cold North wind doth bring?
Or do they ride above the cloud
Where only angels are allowed
And weather storms while hanging on the wing?

When I’m out upon a walk
The plaintive mew of soaring hawk
Tells me Summer has arrived for certain now
Like the screech of cruising swift,
The tremendous sudden shift
Explodes in life from every leafy bough!

  

I do not know quite why
But the single piercing cry
Of a Buzzard soaring high up in the blue
Never fails to bring me joy
Ever since I was a boy
It’s the rareness of the sound that touches you

Perhaps I’ll never know
Where my wingéd friends do go
In the deepest, darkest depths of late December
But I know they’ll ever soar
In my heart for evermore
Giving wing to every whim I’ll ever tender!

P J Deakin 2015 ©