We hiked a lot when we were kids
Dorset or Cornwall, on holiday
with another family
A brood of boys, mum, and me
Their dad, Ted, a sidecar racer
gave me my first pair of boots
red laces, and shiny as a conker
the smallest in a muddy row
awaiting feet, at our back door
their chunky soles, like a Yorkie bar
I learned back then that while I could
trail happily behind the pack
(runt of the litter, they used to joke)
I should never trust a niche
someone urges me to reach for
So, mindful of my fear of slippage
and, ever-cautious in my nature
my footholds would sit much lower
I trusted the instincts of my body
the appraisal of my own young eye
I forgot this lesson, as I grew
paid too much heed when others sketched
The life they wanted me to stretch for
with its long, unlikely wish-list
charting things entirely mis-matched
to my centre of gravity
I could have been far more sure-footed
Instead, I let doubt undermine me
and vague disquiet breed unrest
No-one knows anything. Listen less