It stayed with her forever,
The faded **** in her skin.
A permanent reminder
Of courageous origin.

Welsh suburbia,
The week’s paper nestled at doorsteps
And cars lining driveways.
The sloped street dared
Every child to climb
Onto their bike and conquer.

She avoided it when shaving
As though an accidental cut
Would pollute
Childhood's lustre.

No stabilisers. Wicked.
The street’s children envied her.
A goddess of danger.
They all lined up on the day,
To see their idol
Dominate the asphalt *****.

Imagination made it prickle
In board meetings and cafes.
Time marched on
And the sensation with it.

Parents peered
Out their front doors.
Grandad stood vigilant
Fighting a smile.
The silence before calamity…
…and the forward push.

The scar sat beneath her shin,
Short from a distance but
Taller the closer
You came.

Whoosh. Down she went
Gulping the air and
Smiling like a belle.
Children blurred as she passed,
Everything became a haze
And she hollered.

It prickled
At Grandad’s funeral last year.
That made her fight a smile,
And she eventually succumbed.

Euphoria blinded her
To the oncoming curb.
The bike lurched, and
Heaved her off.
Pain echoed through naïve bones
Radiating beneath her shin.

Her husband asked about it.
'I fell off my bike as a girl.'
Her children asked about it.
'I fought a dragon.'

Grandad appeared instantly,
Deft hands wrapping
Gauze around a cut.
With an affectionate ruffle,
He pulled her up onto his shoulder
And carried her back.
When she cried in pain,
He pulled her closer.