Today your handlebars

were the antlers of a stately stag in rut.

Yesterday they were coathangers,

wires flexing with my clutch.

Some days they are noodles

twitching just beyond my reach,

but today they were proud and poised

leading me on my way.

 

Your pedals today were nonstick pans,

feet floating off each prance,

your pedals are outsized jam lids,

the screws don't fit my shoes.

But yesterday, oh yesterday they were as cut

diamonds set in gold,

holding my legs as precious stones,

they were bright, beautiful and bold.

 

Your saddle, you'll be sorry to hear,

is sharpened, shining razor wire.

The leather is as polished hardwood,

beautiful but duty misunderstood.

The shape is as an arrow's head

pointing, firing, taking aim, shooting

angry shafts at my oh so tender rear.

 

Your frame is as Isambard Brunel

designed his elegant structures,

clear lines and functional,

an object of much desire.

Your frame is as strokable

as a kitten's softest fur,

an animal grace all your own;

I'm humbled to be yours.

 

Written in workshop at WOL Big Weekend.