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Bike Ride

I saw this bike, post-war, restored -

The Repair Shop, a TV show,

and suddenly I’m riding it.


A toddler, at my mother’s back,

the child-seat crude, black rods, red pad,

mudguard white striped, black-out required.


She told me, first air-raid she knew,

new dress, on slab, newspaper laid,

she lay, more fear newsprint transferred.


Handlebars battered, spinning wheels,

as lifted head, surveyed the screams -

and then this bike, her own, my ride.


Previously published by A New Ulster

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