Run, Adam

Adam runs
alongside the frozen canal,
new year's day -
his fiftieth year.

It's good to do this
he's been told,
to run along the canal's artery
the ground hard beneath his feet

and Adam has taken this sound advice
even though his chest pulls tight
and his bad knee creaks
like a damp
and rusty gunwale.

So quiet this new year's day -
just the tramp tramp of Adam's running shoes
in the light snow
the heave of his chest
the surge of his spit
gurgling in his most secret cavities
like the molluscs
beneath the frozen water.

Adam runs
in his fleece and string vest
past the slate dark lock gate
between the ice-laden branches
over the clew of the ditch.
He is short of breath
in this his fiftieth year
but won't give up.

By a glistening hawthorn
Adam stops to bend and slobber,
sees a barge cutting through the ice,
its roof laden with frosted logs
its chimney puffing rings of scented smoke.
The tiller-man smiles, waves,
happy in his work
ferrying fuel for the new year fires.

"Jump aboard, Adam" he crys.
"Jump aboard and sail with me, Mr Charon, to Lethe!"

Adam frowns and scampers onwards -
along the canal's white artery,
over silver threads
of frosted grass
away from the tiller-man
and his abject load
past an old couple
strolling arm-in-arm
who doff their winter hats
and sing a final new year's greeting
would that they know it...

Faster, faster he runs
the haw frost shimmering
his old heart beating
his bad knee creaking
his barren waters shifting
in the new year's light
in this his fiftieth year...

Run, Adam.