Norwegian Poles.

The stove is stoving, the light is fading and the fruit basket is full of windfalls.
The washing’s ironed, the carpet’s vacuumed and the draining board is shiny.
The ‘oosbind’s pottering, the dawter’s driving and the tickets are booked for the flicks tonight.
The old git bought me two Norwegian walking poles. We crossed the road and the smell of the orchard should be bottled. The sweet smell of apples and pears lying on the grass. The loamy scent of crispy leaves. Mole hill’s nearly mountains, smelling of dark, rich earth. Deep breathing luscious autumn breath. The poles meant the old git and I had our first row about when to use them. One, two, pole, pole or One pole, two pole. In the end I walked in front, he behind, our poles striking the ground in unison. They made a pleasant walk into a route march. Fast round the trees, fast down the hill, swiftly round the bend, swiftly along the stream, fast up the hill. and I mean really fast our poles pushing us on like demons. When we got to the bench by the big oak tree I collapsed. Deep intercostal breaths to recover. Delicious. The air tasted of mellow fruitfulness. Good Old Keats.
Then through forest Clump, tangled roots and calf high leaves. Acorns in abundance, sweet chestnuts by the ton. The squirrel ravaged chestnut cases crunched under my Gortex boots. I found them under the coats in the kitchen. Over the road, another hill, more leaves and I said to the old man does it signal in a cold winter, and he said, ‘Naw, it means we’ve had a good Autumn Stop thinking about then and stay with now.’
Deepak Chopra, in an anorak.
Took me boots off and surrendered to the armchair.
This time last year I started crumbling, this year I’m blow drying my own hair and booking cinema tickets.
I was told to let this old body heal itself, and by jove that’s exactly what I’m doing.