What it’s like to belong to a biker ‘gang’
As she makes her way to a weekly meeting for those (like her) who love motorbikes, poet and artist Frieda Hughes meditates on speed, ageing and the open road
BIKE NIGHT
Week after week the rain saturated the earth
Until the overspill ran through grain silos
And between the knees of cattle in sheds on hillsides,
Funnelling itself into the rivers below
Until they gagged and gave up their edges.
Trees languished leafless until April split open
Their chrysalis foldings, and then were suddenly green.
But the beeches remained unmoved, dead to the world.
Crispy twigs scratching at air; I feared they would
Never leaf again. And while I waited, I found my mind
Like a bag of squabbling marmosets
Being dragged into hedges by decisions, opportunities,
Set-backs, the egos of others and all kinds of incidents.
Until suddenly, sun. In a blaze of three days in May
The beech trees unravelled their disinterest
At the weight of the previous sky, and the roads
Were washed clean and now dry for a Thursday night,
When bikers meet weekly to be among motorbikes.
My ride there was a meditation on speed and what matters
As each of us age in our wing mirrors.