A Cycle Ride

    
Our bikes lay in the hawthorn hedge,  
the valley deep and steep  
lambs tumbling, clumsy, new born,  
legs too long, eyes in wonder at the world,  
Blue of sky and green of grass,  
clear streams with stepping stones  
hedges layered as centuries pas,t  
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, my brother has his bike;  
he was too young to come, stayed home with Mam  
four years younger than me.  
I was thirteen and 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.