Girl On An Indian Motorbike

In memory she’s pretty and young, Dressed in Land Army girls dress (Where my memory starts to fail False memory fills in the rest), Fresh faced, full breasted, shirt Sleeves rolled, her arms half bare Talking and joking and smoking, Smoke drifting through blonde hair, Sitting astride her big Indian bike, In those days not a usual sight, But it’s burned in my mind So I’m sure I have the details right. Embossed on its petrol tank, In Eagle feathered head dress, A proud Comanche chief In paintwork so vivid and fresh. Straight from the cover of the comic I’d been holding there in my hand Imagined I was a brave, member Of his defiant renegade band. She was chatting with my brother, A full seven years older than me, And a few more the village lads Him and maybe another two or three. It’s about nineteen fifty, Such a very different world, Very rarely then did you see A motorbike riding girl. Then kicking that bike into life She was off and riding away I don’t think I saw her again After that one very special day. I knew who she was, Still remember her name A farmer’s young daughter A tomboy of local fame. More than sixty years later She sprang back to mind. Browsing a gallery And what did I find: A reproduction poster, A girl on an Indian Machine, Those years rolled away As though they’ve never been. And that blonde girl in my mind So casually brought back to life Did she eventually become Some good man’s happy wife. And what of that Indian bike She’d ridden with style and flair On which she’d lavished So much time, effort and care? Did she maybe take it For one last, long loving, ride Before saying good bye to the machine That had brought so much joy and pride. That poster now hangs on a friend’s wall A present we knew she’d like In her younger days we knew She’d ridden her own Indian bike.