I am reminded of the ways things will always go
as I run the route by the lambs and graveyard.
One foot in front of the other, over and over.
Grass. Asphalt. Concrete. Doesn’t matter.
Autumn is soon to leave, winter’s chill bites
and lets go, spring is growth and shearing,
and summer flies by as I doze and forget
about the days.

But it is drilled into me, laboured, as my sole
strikes and strikes the ground, sending me
forward with each stride. My own stride.
A heartbeat I control, as much as I can, and it’s Invictus,
sounding off in my head to a quiet, distant knell.
Shoes on. Oars in the rowlocks.
Charon can rest his arms in the stern.

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