Cross Country Practice

I run, pressing on, racing and pacing-
Stumbling, leaden-legged and breathless-
Pastoral scenes steal my sight
From the steep, uneven path.
My eyes turn, seeking the comfort
Of the sylvan dreams of our fathers
I stagger and falter- victim to Sentiment\'s wrath.

Pulling away, farther from ancestral aims,
Ascending this hill-
The rock, my base, my bane-
Mind plunges on, body loses will.
Pain, real or imagined, pummels these wings
And I must force my thoughts to other things.

I crown this King of Obstacles
And sit on the royal crest,
Surveying all the monarch overlooks,
And wonder that my humble frame
This great height did so quickly claim.
I have conquered you, Great King,
But weep not, for I come to your throne
Only to ask that I may now return
Home.

Fleeing, flying, flourishing-
I descend the true and holy stronghold-
Away from the gold of the sun\'s treasury-
And return to the earth, the soil, now dirt-
And in so doing count myself to be quite bold.