Sitting in that cocoon
between you and those handlebars
that recklessly indicated our trajectory
as you pummelled at the pedals,
I was whisked hither and thither;
from home to school,
school to home,
sometimes diverting via the egg packers,
where you went to buy cheap, cracked eggs.
One time we arrived home
my face reddened by the wind,
yours reddened by your exertions,
And as you clambered off your bicycle
you dropped the basket of eggs
in trying not to drop me.
I don't remember the exact
Lincolnshire dialect you uttered,
but I do remember my reply:
"Well, you wanted them cracked."
I loved the sound of your laughter.
Copyright © 2013 Colin Whyles