The Old Biker

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!

Biker poem by Adrien Sweetman