No Picnic

Ironically, they rode a tandem bike,
that warring pair, though any two less like

to live in tandem would be hard to find.
He rode in front. She took the seat behind.

They quarrelled as they puffed up Devon hills.
‘You pedalling?’ ‘Of course!’ ‘I swear it feels

as if you’re not,’ he snarled. He spoke his mind.
She held her tongue sometimes thinking it kind

and wiser, since the sidecar held their child,
a two-year-old aware and watchful of their wild

abuse. Inevitably came the rift.
The front, the back, the sidecar came adrift.

He took their money, bought himself a car
and left. The woman panicked, married far

from suitably — again — sank without trace.
The infant washed up in a Home for Waifs.