deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Cycle Ride

 Our bikes lay in the hawthorne hedge
in the valley deep and steep
lambs tumbling, clumsy, new born,
legs too long, eyes in wonder at the world,
the blue of sky and green of grass,
clear streams with stepping stones
hedges layered as centuries past
gaps just wide enough
for little bodies to squeeze
to the road and adventures,
the road we had ridden thirty miles.
Sandwiches and thermos flask
sitting on our cycle capes,
watching the dog and shepherd
on their daily round, whistles and scolding
as the ram, hurt pride, defies the dog.
Soon in the pen to start the shearing.
Where this valley was I cannot recall
Where it is I do not know.
Dad would know, his maps neat and folded
in the saddle bag with the tools;
he's gone and my brother has his bike;
he was too young to come, stayed home with Mam
four years younger than me.
I was thirteen and how my legs ached,
he had my pedal car red it was
we drove it round the 'side' along the London Pride
never in the street the garden gate closed.
I sat on it to watch my friends,
thirteen on the front, green and with a spring.
Three hours to home and supper
listening to Lorna Doone  on the wireless,
Yorkshire pudding left from dinner
spread with golden syrup, crisp and cold.
A lion on the tin, Tate and Lyle's, proud boast
"Out of the strong came forth sweetness"
beneath the sleeping monster's picture.
From the Bible I supposed,
there was a lot of that at Sunday School.
Written by Kexby (john rickell)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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