"Aren't grasses green?"

Hands clenched into fists
around the rear-view mirrors' stands
in my front, the little man rides,
bottom itching on the petrol tank;

at watch, eyes permanently peeled
behind me - pillion sitting -
the bigger little man watches
our road changing, from straight asphalt

into a snaking river of gravel red, flowing
through a sea of motorcycle dwarfing grasses
flowering yellows, purples and russets,
and when just green, like none on any lawn seen.