The hush, the slush of we wheels,
then the sound of a distant
wise voice, ‘don’t touch the brakes.’
Four tyres are tracked,
snailed to the road.
These past and present
Strips are mirrored behind and
screened in front,
make me too aware of
my passing entrails.
The voice again – ‘it’s time to turn back.’
‘The night is closing in.’
‘There’s nobody else on the road.’
‘Remember its rise and its fall.’
‘Don’t get stuck.’
I stare at the
smug settling in of
rooted inhabitants;
the rush mapped bogs,
and the snaking stream.
They never fear their
sense of direction.
Tyres spin, the night grins;
a bridge.
Stop.
The light is cut.
One last shot?
