The Harley at the Gate


Ponderings from Beaufort St – 13th May 2013
I stopped and waited at the lights
Before ambling on my way
Turning my head to the right
I saw him on his bike
Waiting at funeral parlour door
His bike, was black and shiny
A long low Harley
Powerful, muscled beast
It growled and grumbled
At being held in check
The rider, leather clad was all in black
His face in anonymity hid
Scarf wrapped in black
The door rolled up and into yawning space
He rolled his growling beast
Had he come to collect
Some Recalcitrant soul
From Parlour’s home
The lights changed
I scurried on my way
And pondered whether death
Had gone up-market
Trading in his horse
For metalled beast
Had death given up the robes of drag
And clad himself in modernity’s garb
The day will come when death and I will meet
And when he rolls towards me
To knock me off my feet
I hope it’s on his Harley
He comes for me
Walking to work I pass a funeral home/parlour which is on a corner of the street.  This morning as I waited at the lights one of the workers, well I assume he was a worker,  dressed all in black waited on his Harley to enter.  There is something deliciously ironic about seeing a black clad biker in a Harley going into a funeral parlour!

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