One evening, in a Brecon pub,
that guy (he never met him again),
ex-Army, just said, Exhale.
as hard as you can, let the rest
take care of itself.
So through the Beacons, the Fells,
the West Highland Way,
he exhaled, exhaled the crap,
the lingering festering stuff.
He looked to the hills, the air,
the height and peaks of the world’s calm,
his own humility,
and let the good breath back.
If you have any comments on this poem,
Robert Nisbet would be pleased to hear from you.