Poetry

Motorcycling along
the N1 freeway
from Pretoria in the north to Cape Town

the flaming sun rises over the horizon
small like a ripe apricot
while its dimensions gets larger

and then tomato red
a little later it turns orange and like a ripe fruit
hangs untouchable up on the sky

and corn fields, fences and trees
fly past almost blurring
in the twilight sketched like pencil drawings

and the sun like a huge pit being spitted
crosses the sky
changes to yellow and then to white hot

and the sky turns from dusk grey
to bright blue
and later to a darker hue

and the hot wind bristles
as if with loving fingers
touching and stroking your whole body

and in the early fresh morning
you draw in at a garage,
make a pit stop, to check the oil,

to fill your motorcycle up
and have a breakfast
at a Wimpy roadhouse

and the smell of fuel
hangs in the air
and you find children there

looking with huge curious eyes
at your motorbike
and gazing at you,

as if a hero character
has just walk right out
of a cartoon magazine

and you remove your helmet
take off your leather gloves
visit the loo where a guy or two

looks at you and comments
on your motorcycle, your leather jacket
the weather and the road

and in the restaurant
the waitress pours a Mega coffee,
smiles dazzling

when she puts it on the table
with your breakfast of steak,
French fries and coke

and you can swear
that there’s a twinkling in her eyes
before she walks away

with a French plate swishing to and thro
and buttocks leaving a distinct impression
of female grace

but the sun is drawing water
and time is flying,
you motorcycle thunders alive

and you return to the freeway
where at speed you pass
cars, greyhound busses and trucks

and the road feels almost without end
right through the flat Orange Free State,
later the acrid hell hot Karroo

where you see grazing flocks of sheep
like white specks
and some windmills

flashing and reflecting the sun
on their huge spinning blades
somewhat like lonely landmarks

and you make some more pit stops
to refuel and stretch your legs
have another meal

and just before driving through
the last tunnel on top of a hill
dusk envolopes the world, the sun dwindles away,

the evening star is just above the horizon
and a little later star after star flies pass
like leaves in autumn falling from a tree

and you are free, almost at the end
of your journey
or maybe you are always just passing by,

travelling to a new destination
with the wind, the sun and sky
and some people that you meet on the trip

and sometimes you go very fast,
at other times almost creeping slow
until suddenly destiny causes the journey to end.