The Low Road revisited
Your feet throw the sand up, the wind combs your hair.
Hysterical crows are like blots in the sky.
I always am dreaming of holidays fair
where beaches are plenty and heats make me sigh.
You run through the fields with some tune in your ear
while heaven is shining on all things you see.
Agendas, calendars, no apps interfere,
on nikes a bit springy from fatness you flee.
In yonder deep valley the trees they are hiding
your figure that's running and, actually,
whenever I make you appear, while abiding,
I wonder if you aren't, really, me.
Am I imprisoned in thoughts of reflection,
although both my flexible legs don't stop?
If I will keep running, or abide without action,
I can review myself, beyond every top.