In the middle of the green
lie the bicycles.
The bicycles are huddled together
but spread themselves outward
like a large plant growing
in the centre of a perfect lawn.
There are no lonely bicycles
on this broad meadow,
only wheels and handle-bars
snuggling up to their companions.
They are taking a break
from the business
of carrying their owners
this way and that.
They are full of gossip concerning
the places they have been,
and they hear from their friends
about city streets and country lanes
that many have not yet visited,
tales of being locked up for hours
at gates and iron railings,
and they share jokes
about cyclists pedalling too fast,
about riders falling off saddles,
about people struggling up hillsides
with the chain completely in the wrong gear.
Some are lost in argument
about roadside politics,
about inconsiderate drivers,
about rain and the qualities of oil,
but all the while, as they chatter,
another Sunday morning passes
and the bicycles enjoy
a long rest, lying on their sides
in the bright December sunshine.
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