This was the day we took you on Tour,
when the world came to Finchingfield:
bunting on the windmill, the deli, the menu
in French outside the pub. We sat with you
by the blue house, me in my cap and red stripes,
your mum in blue, like Gallic impersonators.
Around us were the Lycra pilgrims from the clubs,
radios pressed to their ear while Napoleon waited
in the crowd in Ray-Bans, a copy of Paris Match
tucked under his arm. Then the Peleton swept
through us, streaming like a river of colour,
a streak of luminescence, then gone and England
becomes England again while you point up at
the plane that has left two wheels drifting in the sky .