He cycled as a boy these lanes 

From Weeping Cross to Berrington

To buy this bike he sold his trains

Dropped handlebars! Deraileurs! 

A sense of freedom unrestrained 

For hours his independence gained

His Mum will have a fit

 

He never took a map to trace

His ride past blind Condover school,

To Brompton, Boreton, Betton Strange

To Pickford Hall, and Lyon's Lane

Past Acton Burnell's privilege 

Cross House’s goal for poor insane

To Severn's ox bow flood filled lake

At Atcham, then back home again

His teenage Saturday

 

He cycled as a man these lanes,

From Wenlock Road to Atcham's pub

The Mytton and the green Mermaid 

The father used to work his days

And nights, he would absorb the strain

Another tosser drunk again

Locks up, then bikes the self same lanes

My bike he took. He never asked.

 

He never learn to drive a car, 

Never could afford the thought

A taxi's prohibitive high fares

So cycle through the dark, damp air

Alone, the cold ungodly hour. 

There was no other choice.

 

He cycled down these lanes again,

Forty eight years later on, 

Retrace the route memorium, 

To coffee at the M and M 

Older than his dad long dead

The pain of loss so long unsaid

Now put to an uncertain rest 

 

GMJ November 2016