Cyclists Sit in Cafés

The poem is about a winter bike ride in England, but all my café pix are outside on summer holidays.
The poem is about a winter bike ride in England, but all my café pix are taken outside on summer holidays.


Cyclists sit in cafés 

‘Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of riding a bike’

                                                                                    John F Kennedy


Cyclists sit in cafés and discuss

everything that makes a good café.

‘The bacon.’ ‘Oh, bacon’s all the same.

But what do I know? I’m vegetarian.’

The price of tea. ‘And in a proper mug.’


Enough chairs. Warmth and cheerfulness. ‘Not posh.’

‘The all-day breakfast, three-fifty for

the small one.’ ‘She’d bring a teapot over,

and the beans! You couldn’t see the bread.

Proper bread (fingers spread) that thick.’


Fluorescent queue, flamingoes clacking restless

legs. Upturned helmets crowd the table,

Beached turtles filled with stuff: gloves and sleeves and

Glasses, buffs and beanies, phones and purses.

Rides we’ve done, rides to come and other riders.


Short today, a winter ride. ‘Were you out

yesterday?’ ‘Just three of us, Trent Lock

and back.’ ‘There’s that two hundred this weekend.’

‘Forecast’s bad, they’ve given rain.’ ‘Wind on the

nose on the way back. They’ll have to dig in.’


Outside steamed up windows, bikes lean, cabled

up to railings with café locks. ‘Come on.’

‘Sup up.’ Mount up and ride away.

Wind’s on the nose again.

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