08 July 2005 15:32
Three Minutes to TwelveIt was a dark morning in March. Ceasar was warned, "Beware the Ides of March". This was not the Ides, but exactly one week after the anniverserary of Ceaser's demise that we had our own brush with that gloomy personage of death...
{drumroll}
"warm and comfy" but a dream, sitting on benches spare.
chatt'ring our teeth in vain against the morning's chill air.
bumping along the road, the cold darkness thawing;
on the horizon we fixed our stares--the sky's edge was dawning.
seeping through our vision; slowly, faintly light brought life,
colour reaching for the grey, transformation without strife.
but lo, there behind us rides a figure, stark and severe,
a silouhette against the sky, no lovely colours here.
the light of early dawn cannot reach the shadows of his face
the pale pitch of uncertainty clings instead to its place.
a hooded jacket o'er his head, upon a bike he does ride,
pushing forward with stately form, what has he to hide?
why the hood, why the shadow, where'd he put his sickle?
most of all tell me please, why is Death on a bicycle?
we had loaded our passengers and working our way through the side streets, headed out of town. reaching mainstreet we turned west towards the plains, the sky just cracking a faint pink dawn on the horizon. as we turned we espied a dark rider, coming inexorably up the road behind us. sillouhetted plain against the spreading dawn, a hood peaked over his head, we clearly saw the common shape of death embodied...a robed creature tall and somber, visage hidden deep beneath his cowl. typically we imagine him too, seen looming over his victims of mortal flesh with his instrument of choice in hand; a grave sickle foul and ominous with which he reaps the life of the loomee. but in this encounter he was using another instrument than his sickle...a bicycle of uncertain heritage.
needless to say, our ride soon outdistanced his slow pace and we moved onto the open plain as the light grew stronger. but the image remained, strong and stark in the nature of a silouhette. the memory still remains, of the morning i saw Death riding a bicycle.
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