Leaving the house, large raindrops bead on my jacket, leaving silvery contrails to my cuffs.
A Peter’s pies van blocks station road. Hop off and push the bike along the pavement edge.
Disraeli watches me turn into Gabalfa road. His bust escaped the developer’s hammer.
Elegant rider, skirt billowing at the ankles, basket contents rattling against the cage.
Muddy brown water. Turbulent and powerful, morphs into white caps and foam at Blackweir.
Runners dressed for summer, during an autumn underdressed.
The LED informs: Rider #147
Queen street bustle.
At the Atrium, two men dangling, a sign removed. Vertiginous job? Audacious theft? The former surely.
“Want one of these mate?’ a student thrusts a flyer at my passing shape.
Wind at my back on East Tyndall St.
Van driver pulls out , looks straight through me, I skid. Again. That corner. Always that corner.
Heart rate descends.
For all that yin there’s always a little yang.
Picture: Two men dangle, while the gaffer observes.