and we cycle hard - cogs
chuckling into spurs and chains
on-and-around sprockets
oblivious to tops-of-trees parading
front-to-back and the Howgills
rolling more slowly
in parallax and majesty
until we hit a low dip
and start a long climb
feeling breath and thighs hot.
Looking far away to the left
(in a miracle of trigonometry)
a far mountain rises mysteriously
like in a cardboard theatre.
Pushing and climbing, an earth-top also
climbs.
Cycling more easy, our summit stays and
shivers;
a fine old miracle in time.
Now the road descends and our peak slo-mo’s
away; no longer fighting gravity
but sinking like a drowsy head
obscured by trees and foothills, green.
And it helps me feel the sun
and how she seems, every day, to light and
rise
imperious - and how, if we all freewheel,
eventually her rays maybe wouldn’t
be bothered to rise either, and sink. A
sigh.
So Push.
So Push.
