Young and fit, a Para and a runner
Dance and reel, I’d trip a fast fantastic
Run each day, in snow or in the summer
And bag Munros, my sinews seemed elastic
Now when I reel, my back will soon protest
And when I run, my muscles cramp, complain
My knees and joints, which moved me once with zest,
Now have me hobbling homewards in such pain.
If I could run I’d only take one track
To have my joints so twisted that they crack
Restoring backbone which I clearly lack
What should be torture is, with her, just craic
The osteopath who won’t get off my back
Oh healing hands, oh marvelous Miss Black.
2013
Poems from Simon Maclaren 