She whizzes along under

the speckled shadows,

silver spikes spin round,

whirring, blurring.

Her head turns this way

and that, scanning,

searching, smiling.

It’s been a good night.

In the orange light

of the lamp-post

her hair looks almost

purplish red, as though it

were filled with blood.

A jarring bump

and she is in the tunnel,

chain humming reassuringly.

A jarring bump

and she is out of the tunnel

wheel turning alarmingly.

Her foot shoots out

to steady her, too late.

Ground and starry sky

trade places with

dizzying speed,

and she takes it all in,

laying still on the pavement.

Above her the lamp glows orange,

warm and comforting,

but she feels

cold, and frightened.

Pale fingers clutch at

that purple-red hair,

neck twisted at an unnatural angle.

"Oh shit," she whispers,

shutting her eyes, shutting out

the light. It reminds her of

hospital lights, round glowing

blinding lights that make her head throb.

But her head really is throbbing,

she knows because she can cup

palm over the skin-scraped lump.

Shakily, slowly, she rises, and

heads for home, teeth clenched

against pain and passing out.