SCRAMBLING

For Paul Gedzyk...

There is this memory of two wheels
churning up a spray of mud
high into the Boxing Day air.
Then the blue blur of your helmet

as you enter then leave my vision
in an instant, grappling with thin air
while your bike performs elaborate somersaults
in the opposite direction.

My heart is pounding with dread
as I approach the scene, my head
full of images of your broken bloodied body.
But you are fine...this time,

just resemble some grotesque mud monster
rising up out of the ground, as the crowd
rush to your aid. Trembling, I head to the pub
for a double brandy...