The Unfinished Mile: 1944
In borrowed pumps I toed the line,
seduced to this reckoning by comic books
and fables of sudden glory.
I was Wilson from the wild moors;
Wonder Man. I would astonish them all.
I was eleven.
Around me towered the truth; the stiffened sinews
and summoned blood of sixth formers,
sash-haired heroes of their House.
Their disdain questioned my existence.
The reek and sheen of their embrocation defeated me.
I did not even smell like a winner.
The shimmering air was rich
with the balm of cut meadows as I was humiliated
that hot evening, watched by the whole school
that bayed like hounds, chased
my narrow back and fluttering number
round and round the ground.
I padded down corridors of grass
to trail my shattered fantasies
into that last long curve of shame
but stepped from the gauntlet of their taunts
and hid behind the wooden stand
belittled by their belling, comforted by nettles.
A whole life away yet that last fifty yards
and the sweet mollification of yarrow
still mocks all ambition out of me.
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