Archives for posts with tag: Not Cycling

Well hello. And, Happy Christmas, or whatever else you choose to call this holiday season. I’m not fussed one way or the other, being of laodicean mind and agnostic in such matters. I tend to use the usual Happy/Merry X-mas most of the time but I’m equal okay with Happy Holidays. Either one is generic anyway. Everyone knows what you mean: it’s family time if nothing else – a remembering of those past, a getting together with old friends, a time for sharing meals and to raise a glass; a time of reflection and of gratitude; of good cheer, when one offers both friends and strangers best wishes for the coming year.

And, so, I send you this greeting from a fellow cyclist who benefits from your company on the bicycle. I hope you join me again in 2016. And, if I should fall off the back, maybe you’ll think to ease up a bit.

You know, it’s been a good year but it was just one of many stepping stone across a wide stream of years yet to come. It’s early days. Entropy awaits in the distant darkness. In the meantime, let’s keep the bicycle clean and ready for the road, the wheels true, the mind alert, the heart light, and the clock wound!

Here’s to you and yours. Bye Bye, ac. Comments always welcome at arnpriorcycling@bell.net; https://twitter.com/ArnpriorCycling

“I shall get up Sunday morning and wind the clock, as a contribution to order and steadfastness … Hang on to your hat. Hang on to your hope . And wind the clock, for tomorrow is another day.” E.B. White

Repeat

I remember this poem from my days at university. Dorothy chanced upon it the other evening in a discarded library book. Thought you might enjoy the imagery. Perhaps, you remember it, too– a poem for the campfire and the canoe and wild places.

THE LONELY LAND–A.J.M. Smith

Cedar and jagged fir
uplift sharp barbs
against the gray
and cloud-piled sky;
and in the bay
blown spume and windrift
and thin, bitter spray
snap
at the whirling sky;
and the pine trees
lean one way.

A wild duck calls
to her mate,
and ragged
and passionate tones
stagger and fall,
and recover,
and stagger and fall,
on these stones –
are lost
in the lapping of water
on smooth, flat stones.

This is a beauty
of dissonance,
this resonance
of stony strand,
this smoky cry
curled over a black pine
like a broken
and wind-battered branch
when the wind
bends the tops of the pine
like a broken
and wind-battered branch
when the wind
bends the tops of the pines
and curdles the sky
from the north.

This is the beauty
of strength
broken by strength
and still strong