The Hillwalker Poem by bryan wallace

Rain beats into my grimaced face
As I pull the cap down over my face,
Cover my mouth with my woollen scarf.
Wet grass bleaches the leather of my boots,
The water slowly seeping through as I walk
Squelching along with soaking wet feet.

Why am I doing it, what is the point -
Of going for a walk to get soaked to the skin?
Would it be better to sit
In front of my television set,
Daytime television and a warm log fire
A nice pot of tea and Tayto cheese and onion?

But the wind and the wet
Let me know that I am alive -
Awakening my senses, alerting my fertile mind
For thoughts and imagination to flow.
Inactivity and daytime television kills the imagination,
Kills the senses, kills the freedom of the open.

Kills the joys of hillwalking on an Irish winter's day
And it also takes away the joys of discovery -
Seeing the freshness, seeing things anew
Following nature's cleansing shower -
The lush greeness, all forty shades of it,
And many more than that I should guess.

The simple pleasure of warm vegetable and chicken soup,
Fresh baker's rolls - mana from heaven as the pools
Of rainwater form beneath the table on the warm bar-room floor -
Temporary shelter from the storm whilst absorbing
The aromatic turf fire's warming rays whilst looking at raindrops
Pelt on the window pane - reflections of nature's power and beauty.

Isn't it better to be out and about, to feel free, alive and active
Than it is to feel trapped, sluggish and lazy sitting at home?