Sunday, August 14, 2011

The Road

In moments of stillness
I dream of the road -     
Mountain curves, dry creek beds,     
campfire stories often told.     
A sleeping bag, a one-man tent,     
the endless turning of two wheels;     
scrape the pegs, throttle down,      
know how freedom feels.       

Leather jacket gypsies,     
too loud in roadside bars.     
Meditation with a mug of port     
beneath a night of sapphire stars.     
The pungent smell of chain oil;     
the throb of a "V" twin     
swallowing the whiteline     
as the dawn air cuts your skin.               

Life is a black ribbon;     
the horizon marks the tide,     
no end, no beginning     
upon which Glory rides.     
The hermit and the footloose,     
the bonded and the free     
cruise the endless highway     
for a taste of liberty.

The Earth revolves beneath us;
dream and reality collide.
The road is life.  Life is the road.
Transending space and time.
The Sun reclaims the darkness;
the sea blends with the sky;
the exhaust pumps out an anthem;
the human spirit flies.

© Chris Lowe - 1983
(revised 1999)

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