The going and the point of departure
Are both perhaps the same as the arrival,
And the arrival a muchness of the departure.
The bike ride is the crux of it
The journey to and from academic.
The road taken is of little consequence
A thing of endless possibilities
A mere matter of choice.
Where might have been and where had been
Faded to the shadow of the riding.
Remembering a trip that we took
Or a road we did not take
Over a wide open moor.
But why recall
The sting of dust from a gravel road
I cannot say.
Come from the moor. Shall we look?
The Norton speaks to call them
Listen to the gavelling at big end
The sprocket beating chain
The popping of exhaust clutching
The music of whipped wind
Against pinion of pillion and bare shins.
Grey gravel thrown up onto shoes.
The road speeding beneath the wheels
And a loud dust cloud rising behind.
Then the dust settles and the moor is gone.
The bike is stopped and silent.
This rhyming gives me so much grief
Like something rapping in the head,