The Green Bike
It stands propped
against a wall in my memory,
that green two wheeler bike,
my first, bought second hand
from a neighbor.
A deep, gravel graze I got
from learning to ride it, I swear,
still pains a phantom nerve
in my now arthritic knee
after all these years.
How I loved that bike,
its dented frame wearing
layers of paint pitted by history,
its last coat was a thick glaze
of leftover house paint
the same green color used
as trim on window frames
and fences fashionable
back then.
To me it was a gem.
I rode it to the boundaries
of my world carried on the
smooth ride and hum
of its tyres, sank its rims
deep into the muddy riverbank
and raced around a track
that skirted the football
ground. That bike
was pure freedom for me.
One day someone took it
and left it hooked on a tree
in the local park. The top bar
of its frame had been
snapped clean through.
Beneath the layers of paint,
rust had eaten away
its metal core.
In tears I wheeled it home
and put it in the shed and closed
the door. It was like closing
a book on part of my life.
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