overweight, at night I plod
the roads of W5 and W13,
three-mile token gesture of a run,
dreaming of perfect mortal fitness,
that round the edge of
I shall one day run and not grow weary.
kept fit by walking, I suppose—
he never had a desk job, or grew old. I can recall
day you left All Souls I met your father,
slow and wrinkled, as became his age—
once I heard the wireless commentary
on the 1936 Olympic Final
your dad leading for six hundred
then fading, Lovelock coming through to win.
run and not
grow weary cf Isaiah