Motorbikes.

I think I know now
why I have always loved
a Portuguese night.

I had thought it may have been
the sweet lemon scent
that accompanies the darkness
after the heat of day.

Or that it was the returning
from some happy meal,
with wines and family
and warm smiles.

Perhaps, I mused, it is
that I remember sunny days
of sand and sea
and ice cream
as a child,
and I carry them with me.

But I think I know now.
It is as my eyes are on the brink
of closing to more pleasant dreams
and from some further distant street
twin engines roar
and then retreat.

Here at home
not enough people own
motorbikes.
Or at least,
they do not ride them
off into the night.

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