Cycling in the Wolds 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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