Date: 28th of July, 2025

Location: Madeira, Portugal

A Note To The Runners: ⁠⁠⁠Get my book here.⁠

Join The JL Mentorship: ⁠⁠⁠⁠Fill out the form here.⁠⁠

⁠⁠Buy me a coffee here: ⁠ My go to order is a long black.

Poem:

A bucket of beans picked by leathered hands,

left in the sun, awaiting validation from the rain.

Rugged concrete walls, acting as living rooms

For washing lines, lizards of the north, and summer flowers.

An old buoy, I walk into it three times a day,

Rusted pegs, and a knife turning battered, blackened, peppered, and salted.

Windows facing seacliffs, million dollar views, no-ones cares.

Fruit, yet to ripen, one day to be savoured, maybe wasted.

Every Sunday, a meeting spot for the family,

A few kids not knowing their fortune,

Wishing away the riches of boredom.

Brick behind my front right tyre,

And my stick left in third, ignition off.

Stalling on start, a clunky first gear,

A little humid without the windows down

I keep forgetting to get cash, Cash for flowers.

Lady on the corner. A few bunches left. Can I send them home?

I've been waiting round fora note from home,

Forgetting, home is always in the details you choose to notice.

So, I go on, 40km over the speed limit.

Running into the wind and the blackberries.