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.