18 Running with a Poem from the Latest TLS in my Head A hot breath off the land at my turnback spot. A streak of skunk-scent a little further down. Sea quiet in the late dusk. No moon As yet. The hard sand uneven underfoot, Much trampled on. An airliner’s headlight Makes a big white star in the orange coming on In thin clouds fanning out from the set sun — Orange, and a real green, staying clear and bright! But what I think of’s the Britisher with the dripping nose Who thinks we’ll think he’s tough because he says Evil is tough and sure of itself and Good Is gentle, irresolute. You know how it goes? St. Thomas More, for instance, living in a daze? Samuel Johnson, so lacking in hardihood? 37