Cycling in the woods with apologies to W.B. Yeats

At first I do not recognise the sound
As I cycle the empty lane through fields,
And my eyes are reaching out, all around,
To the greens and bright yellows of the Wolds
Perhaps, I think, it is the seashell breeze
Of woolly hat pulled low over my ears,
No. It’s a happy, busy sound, a tease
While I watch the fields for eccentric hares.
When I stop to take in the distant views
I only hear my ageing heart beat on
As if there’s nothing left for it to lose
But might as well adventure while it can.
And I know what I cannot hear or feel
Is the bee-loud humming of each turning wheel.

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