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The Music of a Wooden Wheel
The music of a wheel is distinctive.
Rubber?-no, the wooden wheels-
Carved suns, some big, some small.
Trembling down the stone paved road
To distill to a symphony for someone's ear.
I know these wheels, made by a man
Whose story ends with the final note
Embedded to exact position
That clicks, with the perfect grits-
You only have to listen…
It comes. You hear river crumbles,
As only the prelude of rush of harmony,
Galloping ravel of rolling passion.
Infested eyes are stunned in seeing
Refrain dance on changing beams.
As simple as uneven stream of taps.
Then goes away, fades away, disappear,
So I can hear the next quartet,
Of force of centre that smears
Countless radiuses into a perfect gear…
