When she cycles she enters the dream of her belonging.
Her vintage bicycle with sun-silvered basket, well rung bell
And leather saddle warped to comfort’s fit, conveys her to an Elysium
Of country roads, wildflower verges, hedgerows brimming
And the golden wheat of harvest-time, strummed by a playful wind.
In her basket there are flowers: a pose of fresh picked beauties.
And in her delicately platted hair there are entwined stems.
In her mind there are flowers instead of thoughts. And all
The day is yellow-flowing with myriad light. A realm
In which she finds herself and all the happiness therein.
© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.