The Old Biker
Biker poem by Adrien Sweetman
- A heavy coat of dust, now hides the canvas tarp, thrown over his old Walla, that so long has been parked.
- A sunbeam breaks the dingy shed, with a burst of morning light, which illuminates the stubbie bottle, left there just last night.
- And at ease sits the old biker, with his second coffee brew; at rest on his verandah, still wet with morning dew.
- He thinks about the Walla, in the shed across the yard, “I’ll get that old girl going yet; it can’t be all that hard.”
- This promise he’s made too many times, and through the hourglass, the sands are falling evermore, another day will pass.
- As he drags himself from his old deck chair, to head towards the lounge, his tread does cease, he stands alert, to an old familiar sound.
- The rattle of a snare drum, with a thunderous repore, he waits with eyes hard searching, he’s heard this sound before.
- And it echoes through the valleys, and rebounds from mountain sides, the heartbeat of a Harley, finds something lost inside.
- The old biker then steps forward, to get a better view, of a machine that once was familiar, of a life that he once knew.
- He hears the throttle twist and close, to negotiate the course; his toes tap down a phantom gear, as he watches from the porch.
- Then a glimpse of chrome through distant trees, he strains his eyes to see, a young man with his girl on the back, cutting through the breeze.
- The Harley roars, his heartbeat soars, as the rumble finally peaks, and fills his soul with every word, that engine cares to speak.
- With his ear towards the fading roar, his bearded grin appears; he thinks about his ‘days back when’; of bikes and mates and beers.
- His wife walks out with a fresh brewed pot, and sees across the way, the old shed door opened wide, today will be the day!
