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 ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Through a wheat field on a bike


Through a wheat field on a bike
Date: Wednesday, 10th June 2015 @ 02:55:02 PM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: Natkingcole
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.









This poem is Copyright © Natkingcole


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