the sky is low and the traffic heavy
on slow journeys winding round towns
where early morning rain runs slick across the roads
and half-hearted wind lifts the spray of transport
for shuddering wipers to smear on windscreen glass
where time holds no more possibility in its passing
and the wheels creep forward into the daylight
reflected beneath their shadows
© BH, 2023
In the not-so-recent past I had a phase of writing traffic poems - driving, roads, travel in general. It’s been a while, so I decided to revisit such things. This is the first part of 'narrow lanes'. The full poem can be read here.
As ever, there’s an echo of the human condition in the way we weave our lives round the cycle of going and returning. Add to that the way signs and lights direct our movements. It’s the opposite of the illusion of the empty roads that is peddled in motoring adverts.
We are the captives and we refuse to admit it. Even for a second.
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