Abandoned

Was it once propped up, this epitome of efficient transport, its pedal resting resolutely upon the kerb?

Then did a truck pass, or perhaps the 551 to Evesham (via Fladbury), the gently swirling summer zephyr swelling to a mighty gale, the cycle buffeted, lurching, plummeting?

The plastic bag, a poor companion to its sturdier cousin, might have swayed the balance. We can only guess what it contains - five pound of spuds, a library book, a can of paint, a pair of resoled shoes? Such weighty things could easily disturb the precious equilibrium.

Or was the bike abandoned, flung down, wilfully cast aside, its rider running up the street, spying a long-lost love, a thief, some bargain knitwear? Did the mirror bounce dangerously upon the unforgiving pavement, flex, twist, compress, think shattering thoughts?

We cannot tell. We did not witness this transitory event, not I, nor my fellow traveller, behatted, sun-starved, lurking coolly beneath the shadowing tree.

It just happened, one warm summer’s morning, in a market town, somewhere in England. No earths were shattered. Beyond, at home and abroad, in other sunny climes, much darker tragedies unfolded.