Three Years

I miss the soles of my feet clipping my pedals everyday,
Trying to read foreign road signs, losing my way.

I miss the sun on my face, the burn in my legs,
Arriving at a campsite, claiming my place.

I miss looking out at another beautiful new view,
Eating pizza in Italy, Hungarian stew.

I miss worrying about the state of my tyres,
Being thankful in Germany for a pub’s real fire.

I miss all of the times when I was amazed,
Surviving Greece in a heat wave, twice across Spain.

I miss the challenge of living out there on my own,
Riding country to country on my bicycle home.

I miss the sweat in my eyes, the dirt on my clothes,
The calluses on my hands, sitting in cafes writing prose.

I miss drinking Guinness with Norwegians in Nice,
Tapas in Spain, souvlaki in Greece.

I miss talking to my journal every single day,
Of always having something exciting to say.

I miss patting the frame of my bike, me and him against the world,
Holding on tightly as another mountain unfurls.

Most of all I miss the limitless freedom I had,
Sitting here thinking, trying not to look back.