• Hugh Loxdale

The Jogger

The Jogger jogs on through the rain,

Despite the anguish, or her pain,

Through the park with autumn tints,

Ever onward, she tireless sprints...

Every step, a milestone trod,

In her trainers, new fashion shod;

Her bright blue top quite wet and thin,

Clinging cold against her skin;

Along and down between tall trees,

She rushes past, as if she flees...

Pursued by all the demons known,

As the leaves about her blown

Settle onto the muddy path....

Past the Yaffles and their laugh;

On towards Hatching Green,

Where the Jackdaws caw and preen

Upon the plushest, sweeping lawn...

On she goes...and then is gone...

Where rich folk live...and sometimes dine...

A fleeting beauty...of muscular form,

Far above the aching norm...

Her name unknown, her route inferred,

Her pulsing breath....her only word.

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