wordsout by godfrey rust
The sailing of the ark  < 3 of 45


Balding, overweight, at night I plod
the roads of W5 and W13,

a three-mile token gesture of a run,
dreaming of perfect mortal fitness,

dreaming that round the edge of Walpole Park
I shall one day run and not grow weary.

Jesus kept fit by walking, I suppose—
he never had a desk job, or grew old. I can recall

the day you left All Souls I met your father,
slow and wrinkled, as became his age—

yet once I heard the wireless commentary
on the 1936 Olympic Final

with your dad leading for six hundred metres
then fading, Lovelock coming through to win.<

run and not grow weary  cf Isaiah 40:31.