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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