Bike with no hands
One look at you and I knew
you'd be able to ride a bike with no hands.
I'd tried it, of course, but could never do it.
It was written all over your face that you
would have practised, bare legs, bloody knees,
in the Summer evenings, hours at a time
when no-one was watching the mishaps, until
casually, coolly, at infinite ease
you'd ride, no-handed, surveying the street
as if you'd been born on a circus bike.
I wish - but then, we are what we are.
I drive with two hands, walk with both feet
firmly planted on sensible ground. And
I've got you. Who can ride with no hands.
If you've any comments on this poem, Helena Nelson would be pleased to hear