Member Poem

Cycling downhill very fast
on a bicycle made of wood,
trees and houses rushing past.
 
Every breath could be my last,
wooden bicycles aren't that good,
cycling downhill very fast.
 
The front wheel shaking like a mast
in a storm, a raging flood,
trees and houses rushing past.
 
I think of wounds, elastoplast
and losing several pints of blood,
cycling downhill very fast.
 
In my face an icy blast
of freezing wind and bits of mud,
trees and houses rushing past.
 
By speeding lorries unsurpassed,
I'd stop this bicycle if I could,
cycling downhill very fast,
trees and houses rushing past.