Hopping on the Bus (While Straying from the Path)

I've just hopped on the bus, driven by Karen and inspired by her challenge of Paths, and anywhich way but up! ; )Thanks, Karen.

This Path

This path had bits of grass in the middle. On Summers days
with the tarmacadam hot, this path led to a holy well. We
corked bottles of holy water with tufts of grass from this path.
This path had splits down its sides. I fantasised earthquakes,
quicksand and Paul Newman rescuing me, at the drop of anything.

This path had bits of grass in the middle. On school days
with my yellow wellies squeaking clean, I hated this path. This
path had a ditch I hid behind. They came for me with the heads
of dandelions. A dandelion under the nose was tantamount
to being a silly pee-the-bed person. Their arms swayed.
Their *rods peeled. They swung these rods and the air sucked.

This path sucked. If you stray from a path on purpose, is it
straying? No matter, I purposely strayed. I simply grew
wings. I was on Paul Newman's bicycle saddle, my legs spread
out from the spokes of the wheels. Their rods still
whooshed. I did not call out
'Catch me if you can'. My head stayed on
Paul Newman's back. We went like billy oh away
from that path, over the head-over-heels pot
holes, I saw the grass in the middle bend to the wind. I was
a latter-day bird. I whispered 'Hi-ho Silver,'
into Paul Newman's ear.

Far away from that path, I stopped losing
my hair, my yellow wellington boots stayed on,
Paul Newman and I never stopped
chatting. I rang the bicycle bell. I never looked back.

* stick