Every Autumn in Edmonton, on All Hollows’ Eve
sinking low in the sky, the now wilting sun
rings a call of return, to the nocturnal rider
and a misshapen shadow, on the trails shall appear.
If the curs walked in Mill Creek, are cringing and wan,
then now he draws near, this netherworld cyclist.
The chill air that you move through, sighs from his mouldering mouth,
and silent he stalks you, just out of sight
To pedal hard is no help, he’ll race to draft close behind.
Spectral wheels freely spinning, no effort is spent.
Or when not behind, he’ll wait to waylay you,
’round the bend of the road, in every ravine.
The wil-o-wisp tail light, of this terrible wheelman,
leads you from trails that you’ve learned, into a baffling labyrinth,
of ways in the wood, doomed now to wander
Throughout endless years, a wraith in his thrall.
By TuckamoreDew, 2013
(with apologies to lovers of good alliterative verse)