I live in the countryside near the Yorkshire Dales (home of the Bronte sisters; Wuthering Heights)and for relaxation I would walk miles with my two dogs. Christmas 2010, two months before my illness, my eldest son had a pair of walking boots made for me. They are handmade local to us but I would never have indulged myself in such luxury and extravagance. I was delighted with them; I felt sooo spoilt. I was in the last few weeks of a dissertation as I was completing a Masters degree for my work. My boots awaited the completion as we had proverbial ‘mountains’ to climb. They needed wearing-in, I’d only worn them for a couple of shorter walks…………
In spring this year my son saw the boots whilst looking for something and asked what size they were. He then asked if he could give them to his girlfriend 🙄 My heart sank to my bootless feet….what could I say….it made sense rather than them gather dust and perish but I felt bereft and parting with them was difficult so I wrote an ole to my boots….
Ode to my boots
My boots are gone; the hours drag on.
My boots they meant so much.
Those boots and me, we planned to see…
and amble and wander and such.
My boots were leather n’ light as a feather,
My boots were stitched for me.
Lovingly made and not for parade,
To ramble and stroll and be free.
My boots were brown, not heels for downtown
My boots though tough were nimble.
I thought I would tread, a sure path ahead
‘The future’, my boots were a symbol.