FREEWHEELING

You haven’t ridden a bike for years, but your rightfoot
remembers to pull the pedal up-to-position for the downpush
which propels you forwards, and your leftfoot knows
to leave-the-ground and locate the other pedal,
like it’s done it every day, and though you wobble when a car
swishesclose, (when it’s most vital not-to-wobble) you always
did that, although the rest of the time you are completely steady
and only afraid of bumpsandroots, fearing the wheel will skewsideways
and fling you off, like your mum somersaulting the handlebars
in the blackout, then nursing her own broken-rib, because hospitals
had far more serious casualties, or when the bike slewed-out
on your paper-round, unbalanced by the weight of Sundaysupplements
and your foot twistedunderneath and there was nobody about
because it was dawnchorus Sunday, so you waited for sickness-to-pass
before you tried your weight on that cracked greenstick birdbone,
and there was nothing-for-it but to finish your round, scoot home,
teartracked, and later let your dad drive you to your firstdate,
in plaster up to your knee, humiliation up-to-your-ears,
but didn’t let that put you off cycling because of the rushbreeze
in your hair, owning the space between earth-and-sky, swimming
through it effortless; and it’s still like that, apart from the utter
impossibility of aiming for that narrowgap between two angled
tree-roots, coming up so fast that you know you should dismount
and walkaround, but this time, just this once, successdrunk,
you ridehard at it, trusting your body to calculate-and-aim,
blinded by lowsun flashing between the trees, and you’re through,
on the otherside, still-in-the-saddle, winged victory.