MOTORCYCLE MIGRATION

She sits very still with puddles on her back
shoulders bent in the weather attack
Her rumbling voice so sweet to my ears
Has ceased to speak while the autumn tears
Fall down from the skies in waves of wet
Trapping us all in a soft grey net.
She waits for the sun and the rumbling roar 
Of the pearl white lady who is hard to ignore
Who comes from the north with the wind on her tail
And rides by her side on the west coast trail
She waits with a tank full of octane fuel
She's as strong as an ox and sturdy as a mule
Ready for the ride that will take me south
Where the road is  my home and a tent is my house.