The Towpath

Morning muscles scream,
pistons of sinew and muscle
spin steel cycle wheels as
gulls swoop and squeal above.

Towpath broken, river lapped,
brown and heavy with faraway
silt, stained with distant fields,
flush with power and purpose.

I could be the last explorer, on a
mythical journey of discovery,
on a lonely road, in the footsteps
of ancients. Immersed in dreams.

Winter branches, bent and worn,
whip across the towpath as sprites
lurk in the shadows. To catch me
unawares. To unseat me from my stead.

Breath hoared, cadence quick, I
slip and slide across the slime, cut
through morning gloom, as swans
sail past like ghostly Viking ships.

All around me nature whispers,
in strange, yet familiar tongues,
a million eyes watch and burn
as I speed by, a MAMIL changeling.

As I arrive at my destination, I dare
to glance behind. Looking for spirits,
creatures from the river who would
drag me back, snare me in the undertow.

But they remain in their world, bound
to their history and fate as they wait
for new blood, another traveller, to
taunt and steal inside his imagination.