I'm back running...

Not a very nice sight, is it. Still, mustn't moan, as this photo of my bloodied knee is evidence that I am up and running again. I know that sounds a bit strange but it does follow that if I'm out there running, I will fall or trip somewhere along my path; not every time though, lets make that clear. Falling or tripping is quite a past time of mine; sticks, stones, discarded plastic parcel bands, roots and tree stumps have all brought me down to earth with a thump at some time or other. If I'm not falling down, I'm banging my head on things like low branches or hanging flower baskets; a whole trio of hanging baskets in one instance! I must have found that particular experience inspiring, as I ended up writing a poem about the ridiculous ending. The poem was called 'Power to the Flowers' and told the tale of my run to flower basket Nirvana. The poem then but please remember that I ain't no poet; at least not technically speaking.

Power To The Flowers

and other things found along the path

A short tale of summer running

in the English countryside with shorts on

What bliss to run along English country lanes

and tracks in the evening sun and have your legs

whipped by the friendly bramble

What bliss to run through waist high stinging nettles

with your mates all shouting, ooh, ah, and ow!

What bliss to miss your footing in a grassy

rutted field and hover, albeit momentarily,

above a freshly laid cowpat

What bliss to miss the dog poo that flicks

off the shoe of the runner in front

What bliss to swallow suicidal flies by the dozen

that's the ones who haven't met your sweating baldness

head on and avoiding your wrap around sun glasses,

fly straight in your eye

What bliss to reach the home straight and run full tilt

into a triangular trio hanging baskets, that someone

thoughtfully placed at head height over a public highway

What bliss to see my wife shed tears of laughter

at my ridiculous entanglement in amongst the

swaying basket of flowers

What bliss to see my running mates

double over with laughter at my expense

What bliss to see passing motorists peer

through their windscreens and catching what's happened,

join in with the insanity of the situation

What bliss to have my sore scalp bathed by a friendly female

and to have petroleum jelly slapped on my head by a mate;

to stop the bleeding, he says

Who says you can't get blood from a stone

What bliss to sit in the bar of the Royal British Legion

afterwards and with a throbbing head, sup warm ale

and hungrily devour fish & chips

What bliss to recount this tale to all that travel the path of the runner

So that's me poem then; a true tale of events on a summers evening run in deepest Surrey. What is interesting though, is the link between this blog and my earlier blogs on Your Body Speaks Your Mind, particularly as it appears that my body is still sending me messages that I'm obviously failing to act upon. Or am I just clumsy?