Chilling fog across peat bogs howling dogs on timber logs. Loosing footings stumble and fall the eerie sound of the owl call. Cold and wet, on the run, no happy days no fun or laughs just big over coats and scarves. On into the dense echo of the fog, bordering rancid bog. Light up ahead, fill with dread hunter force wanting you dead.

Change direction, into a stream, back over tracks, to cover the scent, turn around and head back up the ground, listening to the baying of hounds. Running on empty bumbling and fumbling. Memory still sharp, thinking straight, moving on at a doubled rate.

Silence prevails, lost the tail, temporary derail. Into a culvert, under a bridge, look at the map, quick power nap, then back on feet, system to beat, hunter Force turns up the heat. Come low on the hill then way up high, grey cloud sheets up in the sky, all the runner can spy. Then, in the distance, headlights, the runner has made it to the end on that long winter night.

© All Rights Reserved Mark Symmonds 2017

3 thoughts on “The Runner

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s