f o u r  p o e m s



I never dream of my father

Cycling twenty miles each way to work.

A small market town called Tai Po sent him off at dawn,

The green valleys of Lam Tsuen cheered him on,

Steep mountain paths pulled him up then

Down to the Yuen Long Plains

And a tiny village school.


Heavy rickety bike

Black paint peeling:

The kind used to make deliveries of

Rice and paraffin and other daily necessities.

He probably bought it third hand.


He cycled in the damp spring,

In torrential summer rains,

In the short golden autumn,

In the wintry cold, his hands numb.


He was young then

With a young family on his shoulders

An old one in his heart

The sandwiched generation


I never dream of my father

With or without his bike



Eva Hung



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