I promised my friend Ruben that I would try to write a poem about driving in the dark and drizzle of an English winter and here it is:
Low Cloud Over the Motorway [that's the Freeway if you are American]
Inside the puffy lining
of the cheek of a dying deity,
paired orange street lamps curve away,
defining the jaw's line.
Along which we hurtle, dawdle,
wait impatiently for red to turn to green,
wrapped in our metal skins.
We are the flora, the bacteria,
inhabiting this narrow space
between our birth and the teeth of death.
Or is that grey canopy above us,
leaking sweaty drizzle,
the cellulite surface of a god's buttock?
Solid, it seems, weight tilting,
poised to crush the products
of our human dreams.
Janice Windle
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/landscapes-collection-driving-at-dawn-on-december-10th-revised-version-dec-12th/
