Monday 23 March 2015

Jogging (March)



Six on a March morning. Avenues and parks asleep. A streetlight reminds us of colour: red gumtrees, white-yellows of tall grass. Along the beaten track two joggers emerge quietly from darkness and, their brief existence in full view, like figures in a classical story, they return into darkness beyond the precinct of the lamppost. They are jogging the memory. I must keep the blood flowing. I must improve myself. Day is cyclopean appointments, herculean assignments, mercurial errands. Don’t jog me about the deadline! Age pushes their feet forward, casually but insistently. Day jogs their elbow gently and fires up again.

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