Racer

On the saw‑dusted track of Donington,
the racer’s silhouette cuts the dawn
with a hairline of paint on a slick of chrome,
each tyre whispering a promise of lightning.

He grips the wheel like a vicar grips the yett,
eyes set on the corner, where the world blurs
into a smear of flashing lights—
a thousand arms of brilliance shouting “Go!”

The starter’s pistol rings; the revs go a‑long,
a hymn of horsepower that bends the very air,
and the crowd chews the sweet taste of iron,
their cheers stitched into a raucous programme.

In that fleeting instant, tyre meets tarmac,
the racer becomes the song of the engines—
a living metre that letters’m the traffic
and tears us, on the brink of perfect hover.