On the move

With blazing lights they come
filling the mirror
before slicing past

helmeted men on machines
as if cast into saddles
become part of sheer speed

in black, blue or whatever colour jackets
some carrying passengers,
others driving alone

robustly swerving right through traffic
riding on thunder
under a blue open sky

with perfect control they dropp a gear
or maybe two and in the distance disappear
as if dwindling into the horizon.

[Reference: On the move by Thom Gunn.]

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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