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