Sunday Mornings on the Green
by Robert Nisbet



Our Green’s been tarmacked for a century
and now, some Sunday mornings,
it hosts a chunky cycle-rack.
Triathletes, card on backs, tear through,
run to the racks, grab bikes, re-form:
an arse of cyclists, pedalling like hell,
up Merlin’s Hill and on to Dale.

St. Mary’s bells, flourishing,
rise above the pedals’ clack
and a respect of worshippers
walks hymn-booked through the Green,
pays tribute to the statuesque, the still.

Inside the Londis shop,
I, Alistair, Ishmael and Morgan,
in our agnostic hollow,
scan headlines on the paper-rack,
chatter our satires.

Later, as we leave, triathlon’s straggler
scrambles through, clips an ankle on the rack
and pedals off, in pain, last,
but keeping going, keeping going.






Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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