Narrative Verse – Bike riding in Melbourne’s Ice

• Mark Reddie
• Short Story
• 2004

To the North we headed, us three musketeers,
As we rode our bikes towards the peers
Of Port Phillip Bay, and along the way,
There were grand houses marked with hedges, nothing astray.
We rode past Grandpa’s retirement palace smothered by the Garden of Eden,
Accept they weren’t the children of Eden, they were old men.

We came to the crystal blue sea,
The café’s and sand which lead me to see,
The sailboats carving the wash as fast as we rode,
It was almost time to hit fast mode,
Accept there was the rickety tram powering along,
We made it to the city, the cathedral where sat Mary in one great dong.

We passed by Crown Casino, Flinders Street station,
The landmarks of our wonderful nation,
Federation Square, bordered by the Yarra looking ugly and bare,
“Beat you home” he dared,
The pace picked up as we crossed the river,
Which gave us all one big shiver.

Albert Park Lake where children played,
The green trees swayed causing delay,
That wind got colder, a burning sensation,
Yet this trip was some sort of religious meditation,
The dark lake, with white canoes,
Its time to come in before the owl coos.

Back at Brighton now, where there were boatsheds,
Of red and yellow and pink and blue, which turned all our heads,
Our innocence could not be denied as the sun came running along ones side,
The powerful rays kissing our glide,
Tired and worn out, the things we appreciated soon ran out,
We reached home at south and let out glee, more than a shout.