With blazing lights they come
filling the mirror
before slicing past
helmeted men on machines
as if cast into saddles
become part of sheer speed
in black, blue or whatever colour jackets
some carrying passengers,
others driving alone
robustly swerving right through traffic
riding on thunder
under a blue open sky
with perfect control they dropp a gear
or maybe two and in the distance disappear
as if dwindling into the horizon.
[Reference: On the move by Thom Gunn.]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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