The Cyclists

 Spread on the roadway,
With open-blown jackets,
Like black, soaring pinions,
They swoop down the hillside,
The Cyclists.

Seeming dark-plumaged
Birds, after carrion,
Careening and circling,
Over the dying
Of England.

She lies with her bosom
Beneath them, no longer
The Dominant Mother,
The Virile -- but rotting
Before time.

The smell of her, tainted,
Has bitten their nostrils.

Exultant they hover,
And shadow the sun with
Foreboding.

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