And so the days of yellow are upon us, finally. All week long the afternoons blend into night. All I see are harsh lights bearing down on me from the other side of the road as we pass each other, both of us staring straight ahead into the watery eyes of winter evenings, seeing nothing.
Small hazards await, crouching ahead of me as my feet, metallic, turn, and turn the pedals. The specks of glass, wet leaves, small stones sit with relentless patience for my cowardly tyres. I see nothing of this, of course. I ride on inert to the risks ahead, staring only into the glare of safety of the buses, cars – and sometimes bicycles – that sweep by on the way to destinations my fantasies can only envy.
I press on, regardless. Regard – less. Aware only of my gloves on the top of the handlebars, or touching the brakes, or clicking through the gears as the hills heave upwards.
It’s like this that the dark guides me.
Past pedestrian hazards stepping out in front of my wheel. Past lines of patient traffic at the lights. The eye: red, amber … green. I have to react, lift my foot from the road to the pedal, and turn, turn. Regard – less. The cars press my back. Resigned to my fate, movement, I climb the flat road ahead.
My November Guest
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walked the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.
Robert Frost (1874 – 1963)