Old Men on Bicycles

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