The Solitary Cyclist

With a nod to Doyle & another to Wordsworth,
A song, like a picture, a thousand words’ worth.
Hear ye! Those with hearts of icicle,
The story of the girl with the bicycle.

Her cycle was beautiful and on it she rode,
When her mother let her, on the black bumpy road.
It was coloured orange and blue,
A few weeks now, 'twas as good as new.

One Sunday morn, she took it out to ride,
That vehicle of hers, a matter of pride.
She went around the block pedalling with a smile,
As if cycling would soon go out of style.

She’d stop for nothing so it seemed,
To running behind her was her father deemed.
She chanced upon a flower, golden yellow,
And slowed down as if to say, “How are you? Hello”.

In a trice, the girl got off her bike,
“Dad, here are some flowers my cousins will like.
Two for them and one for my little brother,
And this one for me, I’ll show to my mother”.

“Let's go home and share these with others,
For, time will wilt these beautiful flowers”.
So, off she went to share her joy,
Her cycle now becoming a mere toy.

The simple act set off this thought,
That to smell the flowers we stop not,
We get on with our middling lives,
Stopping not if the sun rises or dives.

Said a poet, humans are not idling isles,
So, stop to spread some staying smiles.
Lives are not to be led in solitude,
Live and let love touch the multitude.