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
this morning’s tide is one of metal
there never was a moon to drag its flood
only peering faces staring as they steer to work
cold souls warming in the blowers’ gust
risen and hardly woken as the traffic queues
as the line of tail lights flickers red and stops
as their own eyelids flicker with the changing lights
green for go orange for caution stop on red
there is nothing here but tar and stone
distant green faded to dismal grey
pulsing choking almost breathing as they wait
cars and buses vans and trucks at a standstill
confined and walled-in by ravines of artificial light
keep humanity at bay keep us bound to drudgery
and drive-time diatribes with chain-music bleating us
into silence and the news-beats mumbling
here is where the future does not reach
nor the past remind us how and when and why
we lose our way like this we lose it every day
even as the way is inescapable and proscribed
before us like a map that tells us nothing but this
that there is no horizon to our days no zenith
where the sun might shine or heaven promise
overhead the signs are pointing us to our lanes
our narrow lanes
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 full text of 'narrow lanes' a poem otherwise illustrated in four parts.
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.
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
this morning’s tide is one of metal
there never was a moon to drag its flood
only peering faces staring as they steer to work
cold souls warming in the blowers’ gust
risen and hardly woken as the traffic queues
as the line of tail lights flickers red and stops
as their own eyelids flicker with the changing lights
green for go orange for caution stop on red
there is nothing here but tar and stone
distant green faded to dismal grey
pulsing choking almost breathing as they wait
cars and buses vans and trucks at a standstill
confined and walled-in by ravines of artificial light
keep humanity at bay keep us bound to drudgery
and drive-time diatribes with chain-music bleating us
into silence and the news-beats mumbling
here is where the future does not reach
nor the past remind us how and when and why
we lose our way like this we lose it every day
even as the way is inescapable and proscribed
before us like a map that tells us nothing but this
that there is no horizon to our days no zenith
where the sun might shine or heaven promise
overhead the signs are pointing us to our lanes
our narrow lanes
© 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 full text of 'narrow lanes' a poem otherwise illustrated in four parts.
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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