COPD

I think of snails as I move along the pavement

In bursts of about 50 yards at a time.

Then I stop and pant to regain my breath

Then begin again my next 50 yard burst,

Marching to the sound

Of my stick tapping on the stones,

And the jingling of my jacket zip,

As it strikes my stick.

I stop and pant and start to worry.

I could become unstable and fall over,

If I got caught in the slipstream

From an overtaking snail,

Or be buffeted by the back draft

Of a tortoise or a slowworm passing me by.

 Once I climbed the highest mountain in Bulgaria,

I saw the wild chamois running,

Up the flanks of mount Vikren.

Now every trip to the bus stop is

The ascent of Everest without oxygen

Marching to the sound

Of my stick tapping on the stones,

And the jingling of my jacket zip,

As it strikes my stick.