A motorbike gang has roared ahead.
Threw a leg over a cause and rode it
for all it's worth. The loud gang- 
mouthpiece of the needy minority
whether they want it or not.

But you are the meek 
they say shall inherit the earth
and you can be proud to be left for dead.
You are considering 
the vital songs in the silence of your mind.
You conserve but also improve.
When the time is right...

I've criss-crossed this landscape
passing your viewpoints, and mine, ours
like rainbows or bonfires, like
carefully arranged driftwood
still driftwood. A lighthouse
or pylon is a different matter,
not what we'd need to notice.

I find your shadow on every inch of this road
and when I lurch aside 
for a more promising track
it is there too, stronger.
A season will bury the biker gang
but then everywhere is rebirth.
Celebrating the art of the obscure perfected
I will be the last to change.