Old Men on Bicycles
The old song says the road goes ever on,
and molehills become mountains, given time.
We creak, unspeaking. Guilty of our crimes,
we know the days of grace will soon be gone
but still press on despite the wind and rain.
We won’t admit our time is growing short
and falling off becomes our daily sport.
Beside the road there is no sweet refrain,
no bunting waving in the summer sun.
We only hear the clicking of our chains,
the mocking of the rooks. The loaded gun
is twitching in the hands of watching death
as we keep pushing on for little gain,
afraid to stop, to catch our ailing breath.
15/3/20