The Bicycle

by Ethan Strathdee


Light flowed off the smooth metal curves.

Bound to a tree by the one it serves.

The bicycle leant, silent as the grave.

Unmoving as a worshipper in the nave.

Around it, rushed a moving town.

Inexorable as the river rushing down.

The bicycle stood, a rock in the stream.


The bicycle lay, flat on the ground.

Around it there was not a sound.

Crumbling buildings dripped mortar, liquefying with the years.

Gray rain washed down broken gutters, dripping through holes like tears.


Trees crowded, roots twisting and overlapping.

Dripping water drummed a mournful tapping.

A gleam of rusting metal blinked from underneath an oak.

A far distant bullfrog let loose an echoing croak.

Low-lying vines clung tight, a corpse's veil.

For the long-rusting bicycle, now at the end of its tale.


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