Walking

It is the middle of a morning by the lake.
I have come outside to sneak a childish cigarette
and am grateful alone
in the strengthening sun.

You want to go walking up a hill that sits
solid outpost,
flanking our holiday territory.

I want to walk,
to move my muscles in the cool and feel
the country against flesh and hair.

You look me stranger in the eye and declare the pace.
I leave myself down at the water’s edge.

Five brisk minutes along the flat red runway
and I am already playground panting: impossible.
Your calves tighten in strict half-moons
pumping the unstoppable machinery of your distance
into the stones and the rocks and the gathering dust.

Mandy Leontakianakis
November 2008