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Array
(
[sid] => 181259
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Through a wheat field on a bike
[time] => 2015-06-10 14:55:02
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => In the corner of the yard there is an old bicycle that has been lying for years. A thick bodice of rust crusts the chains and I fear it won't operate, but it does. The music it makes is squeak and strain. The path I coax it down is winding and dusty. Above me are noisy birds perched on criss-crossing telephone lines and they steer their eyes to me as I trundle by. The path begins a sharp descent. I clutch the bars and fix myself tight to the ancient frame as I go faster and faster and the beast squalls underneath me, pleading for respite. I let go of my senses and take a hurried turn into a wheat field. The harvest is high and golden and I roar through it; puffs of yellow dust billowing about me as I ride. I exit from the jungle at a gallop and come to a stop beside a river. Fish jump, and I snap my head this way and that to see them dance and plunge, dance and plunge. I take leave of the old bicycle and let it fall, dead, to the soft ground. I lurch towards the river's edge and rinse the sweat from my body as the sun glimmers in the water and its rays swim underneath the surface. When I feel the need, I leave. I pick up the hulking black bicycle and make for home; walking the tired object beside my own tired body. The noisy birds talk with each other as we trudge by and I wheel the old bicycle back to its grave, to form more rust and give home to moss and await resurrection by another. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 100 [topic] => 27 [informant] => Natkingcole [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => NaturePoetry )
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