Night ride
There are times when it flows. Carving curves into the tarmac track, mirroring the trails of planes as they streak the sky. Banking left through Battersea Park. Emptied of the day-trippers, the joggers, the dogs and filled with the breeze, the quiet, the dark. Street lamps shape the runway ahead. Inviting and free and mine for a while. I switch up gears and I fly.