You were never what you seemed.
Clip-ons, rearsets and chrome
That occasionally gleamed
On my weekends home.
Electric blue teardrop tank
That my chest hugged tight
As we hit the top of the bank
And swung into that lazy right
To power on out, exhaust growl
Echoing across the moor
Deserted; the odd game fowl
Slowly slapping up from the feathery floor
Of scented heather, gorse and broom
And smoke bitterly creeping
Across the stubble; room
To open the throttle, as sleeping
Bankers over the horizon
Yawning into the pink dawn
Hear us rumble, no eyes on
Us, but the pure roar soul-drawn
Knits their bones and my machine,
Each whispy cloud and whispering flower
Whirling through the anthropocene
At twenty-six thousand miles an hour.
.
Stephen A. Linstead
.