Steven the poet and I discovered a common interest in cycling. He lives in the Blue Mountains, I’m in Sydney’s Inner West. So we decided to meet in the middle. I thought if I couldn’t quite match Steven on the wheels (and I can’t), I’d try to emulate his achievements in blank verse. Here goes…
Go west, old man, said Steve, so west I went.
Toting bike by train
Dressed in lycra, unflattering,
Though my stomach in
Then disembarked at the station known
with a smirk
as ‘Rooty Hill’.
A cycleway there lies, wide and newish
stretching down beside Westlink M7,
40 kilometres, gleaming smugly.
I cost 30 million dollars, it boasts, so share me
with tax-paying pedestrians.
Yet, just as two kilometres southwards we did ride,
Nay, maybe not so far, we found
The gates against us closed.
We are writers.
Free spirits are we, not bound by
Rules that may apply
To other folk.
So… Continue reading