The highway man

The wind was howling
and shaking the big oak trees,
and the moon hanged like a sickle
gliding like a ship over the dark sky
and the motorbiker came riding
and the light of his motorbike cut
through the rain and kept him
locked to the stretch of road
that twisted up a hill.

He’d a round black helmet on his head,
a black leather jacket and black boots
and he rode through the weather
to where a light sparkled in the dark
and the girl of his heart was waiting.

poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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