Wheels hug
Those two golden strands
In which might land
Throughout the year
A coating of blossoms
Then berries
Then rain
Before mud
And snow
Will also appear
As cyclists
We go
Living enthralled
And in fear
Of gases, buses, hissing trucks
Skinning our eyes
Looking out
For potholes, old screws
And carbunkles of twisted tar
Which can crush our way
Into a hazard
Threatening to dash us
Onto the tarmacaddamed cosmos
Pneumatic wheels
Deal with dust and drains
Twigs and catkins
Coasting over
Green leaves
Curved up like bottle glass
We keep our wheels locked
Between those two golden bars
The priceless gutter
That delivers us to work
And then back
Each day
And all to pay
The dizzying rent
Again and again
Over and over
We curate the gutter
With our downcast eyes
Gleaning as we go

MORE POETRY FROM THE GUTTER