Adrift

Sometimes,
when I try and talk,
I struggle to even breathe.
The very act
of taking in air
becomes a waltz
I cannot do.

If my path
were to be so easy,
so clear,
that the very road
bore no obstacle;
then I would no doubt rejoice.

Yet does the very
arduous nature
of my walk over hot coals
enrich me,
make me more grateful,
more humbled maybe?

I know only this.
I sit,
with my sweet cup of tea,
stretching out
my aching back,
and I am free to write.

Afore me the bells ring,
ancient tolls that have
sung to all in Old Lincoln
over a myriad of time,
and I am reminded
of my place
in this huge world.