I remember it
as from a dream:
Stan and I both slowing,
still breathless from the climb.
Ahead of us the road,
foreshortened, fell away
beyond our view.
Stan sitting up,
hands resting for a moment on the bars
before they drop down to the brakes:
I'm looking where I'm going here!
Saying it as Randy vanished with the road,
a small dot hurtling down.
Then at the bottom, tight right-hander.
Of Randy, not a sign; but round the bend,
propped by its pedal, standing in the kerb
and upright, nonchalant almost,
as though he'd put it there,
his bike. Back wheel a figure eight.
Next thing, we see a line that might
almost be painted in the road
to draw attention to the bend
so perfect is the curve of it,
a long black mark that hugs the kerb,
burnt rubber from the tyres;
and on the chevron by the roadside,
a shattered red reflector;
while to our left, the hedge demolished.
A loud groan from beyond the hedge,
the star-shape of the red reflector
imprinted in the forehead's
bone and tissue.
And then the ambulance;
and last of all, the doctor's query:
"A motor cycle accident? Must be!"
We never did get over
the way the bicycle had parked itself.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
A Birthday in April ~ Wordsworth Prompt from The Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (The first of three posts which will celebrate the l...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
The final images below are from my now defunct website which I decided to revisit (cannibalise, if you will) a while back. They are a few ye...
Below is the third - and, so far as I can tell at present, the final - draft of a poem for which I have been quite unable to find a title to...