Pitching through air at eighty mph
Little stars scatter on rain-specked windscreens
As fields of phosphor rise beside the carriageway.
We are consumed in chrome
Each one alone
Intent faces
Illumined intermittently in headlight beams.
We are ghosts on the highway.
In limbo on the centre lane,
Tricks of light in manic flight
Escaping M1 hell
For whom the M6 tolls;
Each carried by four fast angels
Spinning hubcaps through the muggy Midlands night
[on driving back from St Albans with just The Gun Club for inspiration]
john davies
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