Another poem from John Phillips book Shorts and Shots.
Faces
Round and round, up and down,
Round and round, up and down,
Climbing, climbing, ever climbing,
Tarmac waves, eternal like the sea.
Moor-land scrub and wild flowers,
Sheep and faces, always faces;
A bottle, cold; oasis in a burning land
And up, up; Climbing with the sweat and the cheers:
Go on Lad! Nearly there!
Faces like the Red Sea, parting.
Round and round and round and round;
Now with the land falling away,
Diving,
Diving into the landscape;
Plunging, Hawk-like,
Twisting, turning, leaning-in:
Clip that apex. Hold that line
Faster, faster, sweat cold in the wind
Down and down, swooping, levelling,
Levelling.
Round and round, round and round;
Pick up the rhythm, settle down.
Riding a rippling, serpent, road;
Flowing past fields and faces,
Villages yellow and blue in the afternoon sun.
On and on;
Twenty to go, ten, now five;
Five to the final sea of faces,
To the final, frenzied, fling.
To rest.
