The Humbling River

I work harder when it's freezing,  
that time of day where the frost  
coats the tip of the grass blade  
and when the ice has amassed  
on the windshield of your car.  
 
Nothing but shadows with the occasional  
streak of sunlight split between the trees,  
branches and bark, illuminating the hollow  
holes of autumn leaves, a reminder that  
even death is beautiful.  
 
I turn away from the car, and break into  
a light jog with a bag full of gear.  
Further ahead there is an opening  
where there is always sunlight and warmth  
where a man can inhale the radiance of the  
light, breathing in renewal.  
 
And then a train sharply hurtles past, a struck  
note that stings the ear drum, cutting into my  
thoughts, dragging me - kicking and screaming  
back into the concrete pit of the scum and shit.  
That's better, there is balance here  
I will admit that there are bridges and concrete  
roads and streetlights, but they're encircled if  
you look to the south. Beyond knapsack bridge.  
 
But there is one road that I adore, I jog for it now  
it snakes into the Blue mountains kilometre  
after kilometre, through the brush and woodland.  
And once the sky opens, and the rain pours  
between the brief moments of sunlight  
the rain washes away the dirt and freshens the air
 
Strips of light slip between my eyelids, the clouds  
have parted, the sun returns. Wiping away the water  
and biting into the hoarse wind, I continue for Old Bathurst Road.