let the race
go on and
be won and
be lost
inevitable
fast
without me
I will be
playing
on the side
of the road
with the daisies
and the crickets
and the wild-growing
fennel
a fleeting whoosh
to the rushing
passerby
and they a whoosh
to me
as clouds
hang humid
and yearn to
speckle their
summer mist
a-top puffs of
breeze and
rosy cheeks
and
saplings
I will be
spending my
sunshine day
with face
upturned and
hair a-mess
and
eyes not
looking where
they're going
© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
You can choose to race toward a predetermined end alongside a slew of equally eager competitors. And end up exactly where you decided to be, with a number fixed to your shirt and if you're lucky, a medal hung round your neck.
Or you can choose to wander off the track completely and see where it takes you. It might be dangerous. It might be lonely. It might be peculiar.
There are racers and there are gallumphers, I suppose.
