By John Aldred
Well, he played out on his bike
A simple thing to do
The neighbour's heard the strike
Of metal and they knew
They had no way to mend
The little broken face.
Though swift are the people who attend
This time their kindness lost the race.
It's a modern danger now
For a child upon a bike
To crease a mother's brow
When she hears a metal strike.
The cry she gave is often heard at night
By those who attended on that day
And the flowers marked the site
Where the jumbled body lay.
He rode round on his bike
Searching for a place to play
But fate had deemed a strike
Near the closing of a day.
There's an empty place at school
And a hollow in a heart.
Why is life so very, very cruel
And death takes such a part?
Now there's only tears and flowers
And memories of a lad
Who passed his happy hours
On a bike, the best he'd ever had.
Well he played out on his bike
In an ordinary way
But a metal monster's strike
Brought the closing of his day.
Copyright © 1999 John Aldred