Natures Track

The clacking of metal,

The sound of a gun,

The voice inside you that tells you to run,

As wind blows in your face,

You try to reach top pace,

The smell of cut grass graces your nose,

The blue track below decomposed,

I race on track,

On grass,

In lanes,

But this manmade beauty does not compare

To nature's sweeping plains,

Where I run free

And far

Across grassy lands,

The clacking of metal on concrete,

Like the storm clouds above,

The rhythm of feet,

Like a pounding beat

Of a runner’s club.