POETRY IN MOTION
Grandad In The Wind
Today the sunshine seemed to say
"Get on your bike and get away,
Too long cooped up in here you've spent"
And so I did – got up and went.
In the saddle, leather clad,
Start the engine, don't sound bad,
Find first gear, pull down visor.
Getting old, but not much wiser.
Loads of revs then drop the clutch,
Great vibrations in the crutch,
Fat back tyre, loads of grip,
Off like a rocket, not one slip.
Country lanes that wind and twist,
Lots of braking, not much wrist.
Banking over round the bends
Using luck where logic ends.
Finally a long straight strip,
Nothing coming, let it rip.
What's the hurry? Why full bore?
Cos that's what motorbikes are for!
Eighty, ninety, this is fun.
Sailing past the magic ton,
Trees and hedges flashing by,
The rushing road assaults the eye.
But all too soon the fun must stop,
Stamp on brakes, watch speedo drop,
Through the gearbox, down to first,
Satisfied a pent-up thirst.
That was fun, it made me glow,
U-turn, have another go.
An aged rebel without a cause,
A wild one in long thermal drawers
An easy rider high on speed,
A junky high without the weed,
For just a moment, maybe two,
A different world, a different view.
Me and the devil joined in play.
The sun has looked the other way.
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Grandad In The Wind
Grandad In The Wind
