Wednesday, December 22, 2004


Sooner or later,
we all finish our race--
yes, every one of us,
each tortoise, each hare,
even you nice guys
who come in last.

Wreaths and medals
I have sought,
the kiss of a festival
queen, gowned and sashed,
the crowd's applause
rising to fill me,

and that's all good, isn't it?
But victories pass,
kisses are forgotten;
the finish line remains.
I shall rest a while
before crossing.

Stephen Brooke ©2004

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