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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  A Party

  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.

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