The Hill.

The Hill.

I turn the corner and stare up the hill, the silvery tarmac covers it still. There are potholes and cracks and small stones everywhere. There are shiny black lines where they made a repair. There are tall old Chestnuts reaching far into the clouds. There are Hawthornes for hedges and Beech tree shrouds.

I push my cane forward and lean as I go, it won’t take me long though I walk fairly slow. I know this hill well; it’s the one I know best. I confidently know there are places to rest.

Right, sit on that wall and catch some air. Those are lovely roses hanging there. Stopping like I do, to rest here awhile, it’s good to have a bonus that helps me to smile.

Most folks would miss it, as they walk on by. It's a nice edge of silver in my clouds floating high. Nature's palette with her gossamer strokes, renders so tenderly, thus emotion evokes.

Fill the lungs deep, hold, blow slowly out, back in again and fill them throughout. Take up the thumbstick, it's strong and it's stout. It’ll help with this climb; it's my crutch and redoubt.

Off I go again then, at my steady pace. There are cocky wee snails, who want to give me a race. There are ants scurrying past carrying their treasure. I see bees buzzing by on her majesty's pleasure.

Oh! There's a wee corner sticking out from that wall, I'll just wander over or I'm certain to fall. I lean on my knees and see how far I've fought. The steps that I've taken and the respite I’ve sought.

Oh! Here he comes with his headphones and Nike’s, he’s eating up the road and he's approaching his nineties. I look on with envy as he thunders on past. His water bottle rattling above his wee wrinkly arse.  His leathery knees knock as he goes.  He has blisters I hope, in between his toes.

Och! Better get on, I don't want to be late and the Sweetness will be looking with concern at the gate. It's not for me she worries; she knows I'll be fine. It's just that I'm carrying her carton of wine.

©Weefatfella.