My backpack saws against my jacket
highlighting each stride,
198 4 miles signposted to Orwell’s haunt,
the distance doubled to my sore knees.
My friend offers scout leader patience
at my toddler concern
of ‘are we even halfway there yet?’
For her, this is a mere warmup
for tomorrow’s trek of all three Paps.
I’m not here just for the mountains,
the smack of island blue or long lost friends,
but to reconnect with my first self
who stepped blindly on her own path
and discovered those things had meaning.
Lunch among the thistles,
ferns and cow pies below the house,
blue seas and sailboats,
I relish each aching moment.
Back down The Long Road,
words on snapped tiles, embedded in mud
read like the poetry of sore feet
and bumbling boots.
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