Ivan Donn Carswell Poems

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The biker was a menace on the farm, a madman bent
on speed, intent on leaving all for dead (it was fortunate
he never left the shed). This biker was a frogmouth owl,
a petrol head who sought to ride the biggest, baddest bike
around and did indeed if only in his mind; I’d dread to
meet him on the track. It is said by city folk that nothing
much eventuates outback except a thirst, and the worst
you’d ever get was burnt by sun that never ends, so I guess
a set of tyre tracks across your back was hardly trendy
stuff you’d boast about or earn a shout down at the pub.
And that’s the nub of it. Living on a farm is ample compensation
for a life that urban dwellers would deny has any verve – if they
had the nerve to make that observation. I wonder how they’d
cope with bikers of his ilk terrorising them in urban streets
or places where they meet to chew the fat. I laugh about that
now and hope the little bugger brings my dirt bike back.
© I.D. Carswell

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