Wednesday, September 07, 2011

September Poem: The Ride

   “This day is not replicable.” Abraham Schechter

Riding my bike up 77, past the neat stables
of the Equestrian School, noticing how
the great chestnut-colored horses
lazy and gentle
delicately munch the grass-tips, mashing
and chewing,

and then on over two hills to the playing-fields on the Cape,
and getting off to run some at the track
and watching a little dachshund
chasing the seagulls from the soccer field,
scampering, ears flapping,

then riding again, up over Old Orchard House Road
and past the stately homes set back
among stone walls and chestnut trees,
and the thorny shells of the fallen chestnuts
crackling under my humming tires,

And oh the flickering glimpses of sea and sea-mist
as I climbed the winding hills
and the long meadows and the pale sun
and the sounding of the horns from the two lighthouses,

yes, and the little startled goldfinches
bursting from hedgerows and then diving
back in, and then horses again,
and the not unwelcome odor
of manure, and then

on to the park by the lighthouse
and stopping to rest on the rocks with the sea crashing,
and out on the water the fishing boats
chugging home, and then, oh,
the sad mysterious sight
of a great blue heron lying dead,
sprawled in the grass,

and on my mind all day were long thoughts
of my old friend, Jan, who'd died
with all her children
and her grandchildren gathered to her,
and them singing the old hymns and thanking God
for the great and lasting gift of her life
and all the many years
of her valiant love,

and so, back on the bike again and home,
struggling a little and tired I was,
racing the sun, knowing now
the light wouldn't last,

but not unhappy.

1 comment:

nance marie said...

can you
it can