Cars blaze through Coryton roundabout.


I stop for a moment. Contemplate and watch.

Headlights and speed turn the everyday into the otherworldly. Martian invaders! Wells would be proud.

Or perhaps not.

“Every time I see an adult on a bicycle”, Wells mused, “I no longer despair for the future of the human race”.

Only one bike here; mine.

Fresh from a head clearing, lung bursting, leg warming ascent to watch South Wales lights wink on like so many little candles as daylight drifts relentlessly West. To see my little light lost, a tiny brilliance in a sea of contrast.

On top of that hill, above it all, out of the maelstrom, the mad dash, the home time melee. I’m out of the blaze.


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