The music of
the squeak
of my father’s
bicycle
dragging us up the hill until
in a mad blind freewheel
we tamed the hill
by transforming it into speed
& shrank the distance
ticked off by the spokes
becoming a blur
in time
and how sad I was
when he oiled the clanking chain
& the fiery front wheel
& the bicycle lost its voice
& its ability to sing
in the key of squeak
and how we glided silently in
to Mam & tea & T.V
on this lovely summer evening
in 1963.
So delightful to read and you were so marvelous in capturing so many memorable moments. Ben
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Oh how with some tiny little detail you open up the whole vista of the past. From the music of your Dad's bike to the gliding into tea we have undergone such a fascinating ride. A delicious poem...if there is such a thing. The past not just brought back to life but lived again to the nth degree in the present. Oh my heart! GinaXX