Riding on Bikenstein

Me at left, on my beloved Bikenstein, at Fossetts Circus Farm in Billericay in Essex

The morning is clear, the morning is fine,
I’m off for a ride on Bikenstein.
He turned up last night, I don’t know how,
Looking homely as ever, but more loved now

Than when I beheld him that Christmas morning,
Touched by the light of the first day’s dawning,
Big black frame and fairground wheels –
``Get on it,” Dad said, ``and see how it feels.”

So high in the air, I wobbled a lot,
``Take it down the road, give it a shot.”
I pedalled off on my velocipede,
Like Rosinante, a shaking bony steed.

My dreams of something sleek and racy,
Painted pink and considered `acey’
Fell behind as the wheels were turning,
As I clung to the pedals, grimly learning

To keep my bike upright and straight,
I managed a wobbly figure of eight,
And rode back to Dad with a smile on my face –
My pink dreams discarded without a trace.

They say you never forget how to ride,
But I wobbled a lot as I got astride.
But soon it all came rushing back to me,
The feeling of flying, completely free.

I flew through the woods like a winging bird,
Freewheeling, legs outstretched, til the trees were blurred.
I stopped for a while beside a rushing stream,
The kind of place where I used to linger and dream

And saw, in the shade of a broad and stately tree
Small yellow flowers peeking at me.
I lay down and gazed at them with joy and delight –
Primroses in Spring are always a beautiful sight.

I remembered a recipe for Primrose Pie,
Cut from a magazine in the bye and bye,
Which I’d never made – the primmies so sweet,
Were just too pretty to cook and eat.

On I rode on my rattling Rosinante,
My Bikenstein on good looks so scanty,
But with the heart of a lion to go anywhere
If my pedalling feet could take us there.

Now in a toolshed behind Riversleigh Manor,
Bikenstein rests in a genial manner,
Ready for the next freewheeling spree
Before I head off to the Faraway Tree.