On the far side of the hill

Yesterday a biker died.

Eighty foals ran a hundred directions,

Despairing, beautiful, black foals.

Summer’s end, evening, we’re playing cards

On the porch, and this is no silence,

But a silence dealt and a silence laughed.

Oh Lord, take him on your knee.

The register of you’re-gone grows,

Softly he was laid on the softest grass.

The front wheel still span as, at the roadside,

He was palmed by the wind.

How strange it is to miss something

You never missed – today on the porch

We named him yesterday’s biker,

And we hope he was loved, and loved right.