The Purr.

I long for the leather underneath my backside again,

the long distance,

who cares where,

who knew when I would be back,

from moped speed

to the caress of a slight touch of velvet

underneath her painted shell like

heaving bottomless metal breast,

I miss the cool, the sweat,

the breeze cutting through my scarf,

my mouth covered in hijab of

Manchester City Blue

and the looks, disgruntled venom

of those behind steering wheels

and my two fingers sliding up

to meet their gaze…

in my head,

as I just took my time and dared them

to join me on the winding snakes

and pitted forgotten lanes

of rural England.

I miss the days of dreaming

of a world beyond the bus,

never wanted to own a car,

no freedom at all, a bike

is all I ever wanted,

the throb of an engine

and the splutter of a misfire

every now and then

as I circled roundabouts

and green fields

stopping occasionally

to look at a map,

to feel the kick

underneath my boots

and my visor steaming up when I breathed

too hard for her.

I miss the thrill,

I miss the engine

yet in my heart now I realise,

I am too old to get behind her again

and make her purr.


Ian D. Hall 2017