A journey

Today on my journey into town

a youth rode by.

His bicycle, with its wicker basket

(a relic from the past)

reminded me of journeys I had made

feet draped over handlebars

of the farm hand's bike.

*

How the wind whistled in my ears,

forcing tears from my eyes.

Sometimes he'd whistle or sing,

and an inner surge of joy

made small irrepressible laughs

bubble from my lips

as we hummed along.

*

Fairgrounds, swings, roundabouts, or

roller-coaster rides never could compare

to riding home that way, for me,

when I was seven.

*

He was young, quiet,

not given to saying much,

but he smiled a lot in a basic friendly way.

He had a good clean country smell

of animals, the barn and hay,

a homely smell to me.

*

He went away,

took another kind of journey,

and the war, you know...

and he never did come back.

I was glad, and sad,

as I remembered him today.

*

Dennis Crompton © 1998