Folding clean clothes
in a front-facing bedroom, now spare
through the window listless I stare
Until I spy
riding high
upon a small bicycle
This pink-faced giant of a white-haired old man
stopped with his pedalling
a’coasting and a’buzzing
Leaning into a sharp loop
he pulls up outside the tavern
attempts a quick and clean dismount
Nay! Something’s amiss!
Something goes wrong
he’s caught up in the waver of a mid-air kiss
Brinkinfield 