The day the Giro came to town

Morning thrills
for the day brings the Giro to our town
which is draped in pink.

We, in the time of waiting
tie balloons
to posts and trees
and names are written
white and large upon the newly laid black tar.

The world’s about to see our little town
so the council’s trimmed the grass
and turned a farmer’s track into
what we can now call ‘road’.

The police - we never knew we had so many -
strut and growl with their chests puffed out
whilst the vans selling caps and sweets
stop upon their beat.

And so we wait
along the empty road

nervous

excited

full of anticipation

new pink caps upon our heads.

and wait

looking up at the clouds and down to the tar

and wait.

Then whistles blow and cars shoot past
and a ‘copter spins in the dark black clouds
and the sirens wail,
as if the road’s back on speed

so we stand behind the plastic tape, peering for a better look.

and here around the bend they come
spread across the road

in one big bunch…….
they’re here,
right in front of me
these gods of men at finger length
muscles tight and
sinews taught
panting through their teeth

we grin, we cheer and hold
unsteady phones as
as a storm of coloured wind fizzes by

Look!
we shout in great excitement,
and point to a flash of colour,
there’s….. and see its….
‘are you sure?’ my neighbour said
‘They pass so fast these blurs of men’

yet………

in that fuzzy second
we saw what glory meant.

Then.
The funeral silence.
As we stand beside the grave of road
like those who’ve been left behind……

…….they were gone……
that vision…
of what life could be……
gone…….
into the clouds and rain
like gods.

The people turn for home
- balloons deflate, wet banners sag,
the names of men now smeared by rain
and back we go to our lives half spent
while still those men
beyond our sight
pedal
to their immortality.