Some run their restlessness into the ground
along a stretch of tarmac or a hill;
on surfboards, will allow the waves to pound
their strength and anxious thoughts at last to nil.
A prayer will work for some, and I have tried;
or stitches slipped along a needle sure
a rosary their worried hands to guide
who gather bands of wool for homeless poor.
My running shoes, these words upon the page;
relentless metre is my churning sea.
I save the knitting for my lonesome age
for poverty, alas, will always be.
I stretch my lines to find a small escape
and give our common enemy his shape.

© Julie Thorndyke

Another sonnet from the archives!

First published Ilumina : poetry unlimited journal 2007 p.186