The Build Up
pipes skirl prematurely triumphant
flags crack in the morning breeze
a drumroll march to the starting line

The Starting Line
The marching band refused to yield
to the endless queues for the portaloos
Spare a thought for those caught short
who had to run in wet training shoes

Mid Race
Drumbeats on the downhill stretch
Children beating pans
Prosecco passed from hand to hand
Parties in the gardens

In The Traffic Jam
He had the face of an eighty year old, eighty years lived thin yet heavily. He leaned back in the driver’s seat as Jagger howled his frustration. A curl of smoke wisped out of the open window. He looked at the runners and gently, perhaps regretfully, shook his head.

Finished, Done For
The wind has risen. It’s sharper now and our sweat is chilling our skin. We have cried without wanting to, the effort was so great and the relief, but walking away, back along the course, we smile and cheer and clap those still running. They are the bravest.