Tricycle

Mossy veins tracked

the concrete cracks

of the garden path

past daffodil, shed, birch and laburnum

Three chrome spinners

ticked and squeaked

to rhythmic pedalling of the red frame -

headlong into kinetic joy

that swirled

in the wake of my laughter

In home-baked air,

by sun-baked walls

or with snow-swazzled spokes

I rode through Rousseau tableaux

and with Hannibal through the pass

my dreams flirted with the hedge 

that kept the world safe from me

Worse dangers lurked

as iridescent Indians

heya-heya’d

round the wagon-train bed

Then as they faded

a demented force

sat me on my trike

held my hand off the brakes and

steered against my dream-weak will

Up from the concrete,

and through the spokes

mother’s sad eye gazed

al fresco, dead,

smiling like her photo

martyred by my recklessness