~

71 years old,

lungs aflame,

lower back throbbing,

I rest on my hiking poles

halfway up 

still another hill 

at an iron gate

amid gorse and nettles, 

trying to pick 

out the path rising 

through a herd

of cows grazing on 

gangrenous grass between me 

and another gate 

and the trail that 

winds through woods

to tonight’s B&B

and the joy of a hot bath.

~

The gate clangs as 

I trudge into the herd,

which parts before me 

like the red sea

except for one

brown and white cow,

legs tucked beneath her,

who stares at me 

impassively,

before lifting her haunches, 

and dropping a steamy 

pile on the path

already strewn with

“chips,” “dung,” 

“flaps,” “muffins,” 

“patties,” “pies” —

choose your euphemism.

            ~

The pasture’s a mine field.

 I zig, zag, circle, 

back-track, hop—

marching thirty yards

to advance ten.

Fog mists my glasses.

Sweat soaks my shirt.

The air smells of decay.

At this rate,

I’ll still be 

hiking after dark.

Panic attacks like

a squad of minges.

            ~

Then, like an aging general 

roused from his nap

to lead me once more 

into battle against 

my old foe, Avoidance, 

comes the prayer: 

            ~

God, grant me the serenity

to accept those things

I cannot change …

            ~

I keep to the path, 

hear the squish,

feel my boots slide, 

raise my eyes 

to silver clouds

billowing over a line

of ancient trees,

glimpse red sandstone,

            ~

the courage to change

the things I can …

            ~

squish, slog, slide,

watch a brown hare

scamper to a stone wall

adorning the hill

like a necklace,

            ~

And the wisdom

to know the difference. 

            ~

Now at the gate

to freedom,

I bow to the sky,

having learned 

yet again

that to get to joy

you often have

to walk through shit.

            ~          

(after David Whyte’s The Old Interior Angel)