Night Cycling

Weaving through the dark
with a faint wheel-whirring
no louder than the treadle of a sewing machine
I thread a white light before me,
a red light behind me.

This is my flying carpet
I ride the wind silent as an owl;
the air parts to let me through.

Merely for the joy of motion,
I abandon straight lines,
tacking in short needless curves
like a zigzag stitch.

Lamp posts advance and recede,
casting doppler-shifting shadows
that knit and purl around me.

Black road unrolls by the yard.
The sky is sequined velvet
where the stars shine down.

Orion stands defiant in the east,
straddling houses in a single stride;
but underneath his proud and lofty looks
he longs to have
a bike to ride.

(c) A McN