In the Fortnight that forms late May and early June,


    I hear a deep rumble akin to thunder.


    Late Afternoon and into the Evenings;


    One, Two, even Three in the morning.


    Sometimes at Four or Five if they are on


    their way back.


    Coming from the Motorway in the East;


    Along the Boulevard that takes them to the


    City Centre;


    To the Ferry that will bear them to the Isle far


    to the North and West:


    In Twos, Fours:


    Five, Six and Twenty Twos.


    A flock,


    A river


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    Or a Convoy.


    Whose music is the deep rumble of their


    two-wheeled chargers.


    And war-cry their craft as they burst into life.


    Swifter, Steadier


    Purposeful and Electric.


    With a thunder made, not from


    Sleek cars or Sausage-lorries.


    But gleaming craft bourne on


    Two wheels.


    That make me sometimes wish that


    I was not watching them sweep by as if


    on Pilgrimage or Migration,


    But with them on their journey


    to the Ferry that will bear them


    to the Isle that lies North and West.


    Two-wheeled Thunder:


    To and From the Racing Isle.