Born to love, born to ride,
made friends; with ease; on every side –
on every kerb, his smirk awoke,
our peddle king, with heartbeat spoke,
beat a drum, beat the sad,
for trio daughters; that call him Dad –
still, as his spirit sprints,
you can still hear him, in these prints,
no need to slump, just toast with scrump,
as wheels in heaven; remain so pumped –
thus; such a fire, that happy spun,
in the dark, will be your Sun!
-
Author:
AuburnScribbler (
Offline) - Published: October 9th, 2025 08:37
- Comment from author about the poem: Sorry again for another unannounced hiatus, it has been a trying time again both mentally and physically. Sadly, another one of my friends has passed away. Neil Wainwright was (and in heart still is) a friend. I knew him as a keen cyclist, hence the name of the poem, a drinker of strong scrumpy (cider/cyder), a good father and brother, and also as a fellow drummer. He will be missed by many, but I'm sure he will continue to ride on the other side. Thus, this one is for you mate, rest in peace Neil. I hope that you enjoy this little homage and as always, please do stay safe everyone.
- Category: special-occasion
- Views: 3
Offline)
Comments1
A wonderful tribute to a lost friend who is already missed. Nicely worded and penned
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