The Motorcyclist

As one hurtles on two wheels through crisp
Fall air, past naked fields, at 85 and upwards,
Much is blown out of a cluttered mind. A million
Unpaid debts are gone. Relationships which
Froze are split asunder and then ripped away.
The wider world can't be seen. One concentrates
On what he's doing, finding just the sort of peace,
Which sages find when keeping still, at what they'd
Call disturbing speed. Alas, that peace, which
Leaves the sages when they've risen from
Their seats, is, likewise, lost, when one puts
Down his kickstand and gets off his bike.
Like swallows, clutter bits fly back,
And all of life is noisome until
He can ride again.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 36 times
Written on 2021-11-30 at 22:13

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