GEORGE Bruce’s athlete is not pounding a stadium in Rio but a dirt track on solitary turf in the north-east of Scotland, describing his physical and psychological responses as he goes. The lines can be found in Today Tomorrow, the fine compendium of Bruce’s Collected Poems 1933-2000 (Polygon, £14.99).

THE RUNNER

This race I run alone.

Hands dangling, limbs loose, waiting

the moment of entry eye catches eye

of daisy left of dirt track on a green plain.

I run. I lift the green grass into myself.

Breathing lengthens and pulls with

calf muscles, thigh muscles. Change

stride: go lope for distance. Strain.

The drummer heart demurs. Slacken.

I find self in the iris of the daisy,

contained by white petals in the calyx vest.

Now it carries mind. What was

ground rooted now a yellow sun

to be held, to hold mind’s eye.

Wings beat in the brain. I stay,

take earth into sky. Into the

meadows of my poverty the sun

steps. I am earth and light.

Clouds move under my feet.