Runner in the Sea

(for my father)

I helped the old runner today.
I swept his kitchen floor.
A survivor and a hero
though he never went to war.

When the call came for volunteers
the runner was on crutches.
A motorcycle accident
had saved him from the trenches.

One day I found the medals
he was much too shy to show.
Long distance champ of New South Wales,
but that was long ago.

Seventy-eight not out
and both his hips are gone.
Crutches are his best mates now,
they keep him out of a home.

And every morning, if pain allows,
he gets down to the bay,
hangs his stick along the net
and wades out and away.

Then drags himself up the beach
of his own Gallipoli.
Too proud, he asks no pity,
just freedom and the sea.