Charlotte Harrison

Cyclepath

I heard the whistling long before I saw him.

A tune I recognized

but couldn’t name. Light and cheery.

I wanted to join in, sing along

but didn’t know the words.

Then I saw him

way in the distance, freewheeling

legs splayed like Butch Cassidy.

I squinted at his face, the sun shining in mine.

He was smiling. No, grinning. Big and cheesy.

I thought for a moment

he was going to take a hand from the handlebar to wave

But he didn’t need to.

I knew it was him: Jesus!

On a bicycle

Son of God

on a Raleigh.

He slowed down.

Backie? He offered, dismounting.

Nope! I told him and carried on walking.

When I looked back over my shoulder, he’d hopped on again -

riding one pedal like the postman.

In the distance I could just make out another figure

Squinting into the sun.

Villa

All buildings contain doorways.

Every frame glossed,

heaving intrinsic joints

kindly.

Letterboxes mouth news

Opened, perchance quietly.

Rooms suddenly throb

underneath Victorian windows:

xanth

yellow zones