Poetry

Wheels of Time

Robyn Lance

 

In a stranger’s Open Garden

a penny farthing bicycle propped against a rendered wall

conjures images of a gent in worsted black,

back jarred at every turn of metal wheels;

knees, pumping like pistons, conveying him to the village

for a dignified descent.

 

Whimsy or artifice ensures the Leg-up meets the latest Leg-over,

a 2006 multi-geared, sleek, gleaming, silver-grey Benz

with more spokes than pappi on a dandelion,

tyres pumped for cruising, and slung with a seat

adjustable every-which-way for bottom line comfort.

Ready to roll.

 

Our glance slews to the flared nostrils of a French bone shaker,

1865, wooden wheels askew, scratched and dinted like old luggage.

The old-timer rocks lightly in the breeze.

It casts rheumy eyes on the youngster

with its eat-my-dust attitude and

ponders the ride.