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...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
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What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...
Saturday, 30 June 2012
Where did we find them?
How we spread them round the bomb site
to create a cycle track,
turned handlebars the wrong way up,
stripped bikes of inessentials:
mudguards for example, lights
brakes, bells, Derailleur gears -
replacing these with fixed wheels
which we'd never used before.
Next thing, we lowered saddles - so
that midgets could have ridden them
and put their feet to ground.
The saddles then we tipped
to point towards the stars -
for we mostly rode at night,
and that by natural light.
What was the bug that bit us?
Bums almost sitting on the wheel;
cinders hitting everywhere,
in eyes, in nose, in mouth;
feet churning pedals round like mad;
shoulder to shoulder with
the champion from two nights back;
the corner coming up,
so nearside foot down flat
and hard; handlebars against the bend;
the bike spins more than turns.
Adrenalin? I'd like to think...
We hadn't heard the word,
but something made us thrill to find
the twisted bike around the neck -
and two more piled on top.
No Health and Safety then!
I had been referred to Dr Lloyd at Brompton Hospital for a chronic chest complaint. I could tell by the relief on my mother's face during the consultation that the news was better than she had been expecting. As we emerged she turned to the nurse and said David is keen to take up cyycling. I had meant to ask the doctor if it's a good idea. The nurse went back to ask on her behalf and reemerged to say Yes, Mrs King. No objections at all - as long as he doesn't take up this damned dirt track riding that's all the rage! Well, after that, what else could I do?
It was a passing phase,my interest soon moved on to more traditional forms of racing. I offer this little poem this morning as a good luck wish to Wiggins as he begins his attempt to bag The Tour de France for Britain.