Roaring and kissing the wind, Alone yet alive, the landscape greets you. And then you fall and kiss the asphalt, tears of pain well – in your eyes. And your knees weep; blood seeping. Searing the burn begins – and you remember; your father once cycled over a hundred miles to see a hurling match: A game – a final, when the world was at war. No petrol.
Copyright © Martin Hanley July 13 2014