The swift sprint from the blocks?
Spikes stabbing the cinder track
Rounding the oval nine never
looking back.
We inhaled the rare air of the
sub five
The last gasp spent to touch
the thin line
How brief the push of the starters time
as landed fish our gills aflame cried.
On dusty shelves the tarnished
trophies remind
when feet were fleet and
fast the times
Batons relayed to the last man
The fading photo of personal bests
so grand.
And to the track the old harriers
forever meet
They hear the final call for
the measured mile.
Upon the staggered lines they
edge their way
Then step back and let the
youth win the day.
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