Monday, April 16, 2012


Night was falling.
Air was cold.
Graves were sentries
Stark and old.
Still he ran.
What from? God knows.
Graveyard jogging's
Weird I suppose.


Night Writer said...

While the cemetery next to you is one of the loveliest and well-tended that I've seen, it is not exactly a "destination" running track, especially as far as it is from town.

Have you taken up jogging? Amos doesn't seem to be the jogging type; he's more a sprinter, especially when the front door opens and he thinks he has a chance to get insdie.

W.B. Picklesworth said...

I've managed to pull of the feat a half-dozen times or so. I started off as "pathetic" and have slowly moved up to "unfit." I'm shooting for "strikingly healthier than the track occupants."

Night Writer said...

You'll likely never get as skinny as them, however.

Mila&MisterFoo said...

Good poem. Concise and well structured. I will follow your blog. Congratulations