The Poetic Athlete

The Poetic Athlete

My thoughts are heavy for my body,

And that's why my physical tasks are shoddy,

But give me a poem and give me a pen,

I'll write round London and back again.

For a poet always knows it,

When to rhyme and when not to show it.

I'm an athlete of a different kind,

I run a thousand miles inside my mind,

My legs may grumble, my knees may creak,

But my imagination's at its peak.

I've climbed up mountains without my shoes,

And sailed the oceans on yesterday's news.

I've wrestled with words at half past three,

While everybody else was fast asleep but me,

I've chased a metaphor under the bed,

And found six daft verses inside my head.

I tried counting sheep to give sleep a go,

But the sheep started rhyming with buffalo.

My body says, "Woman, sit yourself down!"

My brain says, "We're off to London town!"

I've got an appointment with a talking tree,

And a ghost who's invited himself for tea.

There's a dragon downstairs wearing my hat,

And a mouse in the kitchen arguing with the cat.

I don't need trainers or running shoes,

Just a pencil, some paper and a bit of good news,

I'll sprint through a sonnet, jump over a rhyme,

And finish a marathon in half the time.

But ask me to vacuum or polish the floor,

And suddenly my legs don't work anymore.

I've lifted more words than a weightlifter's lifted,

Through stories and dreams my thoughts have drifted,

I've carried heartbreak and laughter and tears,

And memories buried for fifty-odd years.

No medals are hanging upon my wall,

Just thousands of poems, and I've written them all.

My thoughts weigh heavy, I cannot deny,

Sometimes I'm exhausted and don't know why,

For thinking is work that nobody sees,

It can wear out a body as surely as knees.

And while the whole world is tucked up in bed,

There's a poetry factory inside my head.

I've tried switching off, I've tried counting ten,

But somebody keeps handing me paper and pen,

A sentence comes knocking, a verse follows through,

Then another arrives with a tale or two.

Before I can tell them to leave me alone,

I've written a poem about a talking stone.

So don't call me lazy because I sit still,

My imagination's climbing another hill,

I've travelled through centuries, danced with the dead,

And visited planets while lying in bed.

My body's at home with a nice cup of tea,

But my mind's halfway across the Irish Sea.

And when my last marathon finally is run,

And the final great poem is written and done,

I'll hang up my pencil, put down my pen,

Then probably pick the damn thing up again.

For a poet's a poet, whatever their fate,

And this poetic athlete refuses to retire at eight!