Tarmac beneath the Wheel
(To all Freewheelers)
Ghosting through the county on a bike,
a blur of tarmac swims beneath the wheel.
Through town and time, and roads our tyres dislike,
throughout the night till morning gives repeal.
In grateful hands our bounty is received.
Our faces never known, no names are sought.
The suffering calmed, the anguish so relieved.
For love of man another battle fought
And so to home, through flood and fog and rain.
Divest ourselves of armour and conceal
our mixture of emotions when again
the ringing phone sends tarmac beneath the wheel.
The Voice Upon the Phone
(In praise of Call Handlers)
Online, or surging through the ether, a call for aid
goes to the faceless voice, that reassures and gives solution.
No fuss but just efficient calculations made,
ensures we make another seamless contribution.
The glitzy blues and twos, the shiny high viz jackets
are but the iceberg’s tip, for on their own,
although the bikes bring bloods and pills and packets
they would be nought without the voice upon the phone.
Handling calls is what they do, the way they can commit
to making life a little easier for those in pain.
They seek no limelight, no throne on which to sit,
their quiet efficiency is everybody’s gain.
‘Call handlers’, for that’s the term freewheelers want to use.
Our unseen power, with strength of will to work alone.
They bring the disparate parts together, they make them fuse.
Where would we be without the voice upon the phone?