After a blast down Serendipity,
you begin your work in Holloway Road.
Clinical’s wet trees bend their fingers over your head
like ‘Here is the church . . .’. Doors open
and close, but where are the people?
Highbury Fling is fast and gloamy
before a brief openness to the Sanctuary
fenceline. The wind bends through pines.
Then Car Parts. You love this section
—everything broken. On a sunny day
in the morning when the east light
falls through the trees, it’s like being underwater.
Today, you are underwater—a tadpole
beneath the whump whump of the turbine
until you hit the extension.
The narrow sections dare you to grow legs
—so you do. Nothing like kicking a few
trees. Emu’s climb starts smooth: you lock out
your suspension. The foliage falls
away and you’re in barrels of grey
cloud, but the wind has your back.
Sheesh, this is the lee side. Round a ridge
and you scythe the jumped-up rocks
on the downhill sections like
you don’t care. Nobody cares.
Just join the club. But you can’t. Somehow
you pop out, churning, in one piece
and decide to push to the sealed road.
Shit. The wind really is screaming.
You hadn’t noticed, what with your
relentless head, its torch song on
high rotate. Only a mad person
would make for the trig today.
What the hell are you doing?
There are no stupid questions,
only stupid answers.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.
Shallows, hollows, grey bellows.