Chasing Ghosts

There is a runner I’ve been chasing

he is out most days I run.

Always in the distance

but temptingly not out of sight.

Effortless, fleet footed, floating,

ageless, he covers the ground.

He is there in the rain, the wind and the snow.

Appearing through morning mist,

lean and lithe, gliding on trail and road.

Hills, he attacks, lightly climbing,

striding, ticking off the miles.

Where he’s been and where he goes

are secrets of the road.

Some days I think he sees me,

maybe, just maybe, a wave?

I stretch every sinew to catch him,

but each time he vanishes just out of reach.

In the heat of burning lungs and muscles on fire,

it crosses my mind –  man or ghost?

One perfect morning,

when the air was cool and still

and I flowed with quiet breathing

on a long straight road I caught him

and we ran ten strides together,

stride for stride.

Then he looked me in the eye

and with a nod flew off.

With that look I understood

He is a runner I can never be

I will never ever catch him,

that runner I’m chasing is me.