and it hurts too much. She used to cycle
fifty miles each weekend when she lived
at the foot of the Peaks. He’d meet her in Froggatt.
and they’d push to the crags, huddle up
with bottles of ale in the calm of an overhang.
There was something about his shoulders, the way they held
a dark fleece, and his voice took her
off to sea when she looked at fields.
He said they were both high gears, in the twenties,
and all about speed, force, meant to click