Motorcycles

In a lane of thrum and humming steel,
The motorcycle sings, a freedom‑anointed wheel.
Its chrome‑kissed hood against the wind’s bright blur,
A pair of riders – two souls, a lone piper.

The clutch‑lever lifts, the foot on the brake,
The engine’s growl, a rumbling heartbeat’s quake.
Through hedgerows bright, past villages stewing,
The motorbike rolls – swift and fiercely brewing.

On the open road, with the sea on the left,
Wind nips at damp hair, a crisp, Gaelic cleft.
The rear‑light flickers like a lantern’s soul,
While the driver’s mind roams past the coasts and coal.

Around the bend, the shadows play,
The history of the Isle of Man’s L.R.C.A.
A spliced allowance of irony, a sprocket slow,
The rider feels the pulse of the road’s ebb and flow.

Its exhaust chimes a lullaby so old,
In memory of motorcyclists, brave and bold,
Each kilometre wrought in odours of oil and tyre,
A testament to the freedom that adrenaline inspires.

So let us ride, in pursuit of horizons wide,
The sound of the bike a whisking tide.
For in the itch of an open road’s embrace,
There’s more than a machine – a journey in space.