I long for the leather underneath my backside again,
the long distance,
who cares where,
who knew when I would be back,
from moped speed
to the caress of a slight touch of velvet
underneath her painted shell like
heaving bottomless metal breast,
I miss the cool, the sweat,
the breeze cutting through my scarf,
my mouth covered in hijab of
Manchester City Blue
and the looks, disgruntled venom
of those behind steering wheels
and my two fingers sliding up
to meet their gaze…
in my head,
as I just took my time and dared them
to join me on the winding snakes
and pitted forgotten lanes
of rural England.
I miss the days of dreaming
of a world beyond the bus,
never wanted to own a car,
no freedom at all, a bike
is all I ever wanted,
the throb of an engine
and the splutter of a misfire
every now and then
as I circled roundabouts
and green fields
stopping occasionally
to look at a map,
to feel the kick
underneath my boots
and my visor steaming up when I breathed
too hard for her.
I miss the thrill,
I miss the engine
yet in my heart now I realise,
I am too old to get behind her again
and make her purr.
Ian D. Hall 2017