First walk

Many times in our lives we do first steps, first walks. Today was my first outing after a six months’ lockdown. I was almost scared to attack the vastness of the Scottish hills again and I began with tiny baby steps, up the Queen’s View to the Whangie, a rock formation in Stirlingshire. Just thirty minutes from my home, but it felt like lightyears away from my five mile lockdown radius.

Here’s a wee poem to celebrate the event. I walked. And I think I now know where all the rocks came from. From poetry, of course, but let me explain…

First walk

Suddenly, the prospect of relentless, boggy paths,

seems quite attractive. I walk, I battle, all for a view,

and always uphill, on slippery, treacherous ground.

Root, rock, root, root, rock. And then, the wind rattles

the sadness in me loose, I hear it tumble with a thud,

simply fall out of me, a dark grey ugly rock. I pick it up,

I stare at my lump of gloom. So this is where the rocks

come from. A crag of sadness, hate, despair, knocked

out of people by the crisp, fresh air. And I decide to leave

my sad dark boulder with the rocks, stone upon stone.

I place it carefully upon its brothers, sisters, family and

take a lightweight smile back home in muddy boots.

Even the stubbornness of my heart gives in a little.

Britta Benson

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