February And Beyond

Takes on a Journey

North from Kings Lynn

Under a hemisphere of sky,
cloud every tint and shade,
broad fields cut by ditches and their
dancing feathers of tall grasses,
endless flat vistas, horizon brushed
by far tree silhouettes, pylons....
Ah, an exact cluster of windmills:
busy gymnasts celebrating ‘yays’.
Then Sutton Bridge, across the Nene,
‘river’,  long,  straight, engineered,
navigable  - bridge swings when need be.
Back to flat monotony - long low utilities
tall screens of poplar sigh - many more
the tall grasses, the rushes, the reeds.
the ‘convoys’  of vying lorries,
the bored madmen and boy racers
who dash between them; for life
is just too short to tolerate this flat
plate, interminable, empty of birds for miles -
and then the odd flock to crane neck.
I brood,  I glower, disappear within
a reverie behind a lorry for miles -
a twitch of the wheel, the pressure
of a foot, until a roundabout demands.

West from Bicker

We turn inland by Bicker, and the first leg
dipped in fens still: smell the soil
the drain, the big-boned sigh of it.
But the road is empty and finds mantras
of hate and irritation, sliding to sleep
down a dream of a journey, following
broken white lines - and hands are winding
down windows  to blow cold air,
when finally land folds a little, hedges
returning, forested ridges, plantations,
pleasing switchbacks, the road a course
inviting me to play and I do – hazards
the average-speed check , the slow
octogenarian on the hairpin bend.
Ah – and the hidden dips! Sun finds
his way through the Chinese puzzle
of clouds and we swelter in our jackets
like baked potatoes – potato-heads.
‘Lend me your  young eyes,  Brendan. You
can have my old twisted mouth!’
Instead we pass cola, crisps, chocolate
and fruit while Joseph laughs at what
we wot not, hyena style, frequently.

Nottingham Ring Road

Rain on the windscreen,
every drop a sun,
running round roundabouts,
black glower, blue strum:
something old is over
something new begun.

Dream at the clouds for they dream back.
Plantains nod at the patient queues.
(We could be here some time.)
Put on the news. Put on the blues.
Steer with your knees.

Slow moving into sun-drops,
car-frames deliquesce -
oat grass by the barrier,
tattered, shining tress.
Liquid light every which way:-
glistening boughs, laser
roadway gold-grained pollen
congealing to unbearable
brightness as our exit looms.

We pass by the suffering ones,
the other lane, into the ring, backed
for miles way back to Ratcliffe
on Soar, coal-fired power station,
where nine towers pour dark
water vapour plus for Mordor’s cloak,
stacking way up, right by sun
shot through and edged with brilliance.

...