Against the back fence

In the pouring rain

My Father’s bike.

The ‘Raleigh All-Steel’

Two flat tyres.

A rusty frame.

Standard mudguards.

A topless rusting bell.

Raindrops dangling from the crossbar

Like clothes pegs

On an empty line.

A back wheel with no gear cogs.

High flaking chrome handlebars and a

Decidedly uncomfortable looking saddle

Pointing skyward like a Labrador’s snout.

Mother said,

In their courting days

He would cycle up the Glen

To meet her

Once coming off hard in the dark

At Sharpe’s Corner

When another cyclist ran into him.

Father said,

He recalled how his own Dad used to

Clamber on to his bicycle

From behind,

As a Cowboy would mount

A getaway horse.

Behind the ‘Raleigh All-Steel’

The Burglar’s bike.

Left behind

When they were disturbed

And scampered

At 3 in the morning.