Nike’s Angels.

Steel skeletons,

Scales of carbon grace

These day-bright dragons

Have geology’s patience

As they rest in squat-mode

They preen and purr at

One another, at shadow-clones.

Then, launched by a flash,

They growl orange and white,

Green and monster-black

By the first split-second corner.

In this fierce black-top fandango,

Sitting on the shoulders of every bend

Nike’s endorphin angels

Are urging you on.

Defiant speed and dare-jester balance

Are appropriate respect for tradition’s heroes

And the tomorrow-champions.

Estoril Too

Full combat balance:

Poise and pose-grace,



Racing cats;

Will growl,

Will roar,

Will tussle,

Will spit and purr,

Will force sleek-fork shoulders,

Brave riders, adrenaline-engined hearts

Against all the limits;

Will lock elbows,

Fall, spin;


To the white line:

Spirit, glory and dreams!



Moto GP, Estoril

Snapsmile, snarling pack

Of keening, raw-red-energy

Dragonets flying on

Challenge-tense banner-wings;

Leaning against friend-warm

Edges of rainbow drops,

Tight-bank competition-life rings.


In some calmer future

Kings and saints

May stand for something:

But not this fine,

Brimstone-balance day.