I stepped slow, drunkenly down

a half-shadowed rough road at noon;

no more than a sliver of dust,

a dirt track, borders pale in ruin.

 

No labour it was, but pleasant,

above a sky of summer blue;

yet autumn’s grasp it lay upon

the boughs, branches; a breezy tune.

 

And in a glade of silver hue,

of spider webs and thrushes’ nests;

beyond, there boomed in stereo,

the pulse and roar, of cars from out west.

 

I knew most, if not all, they were

en route to that town on the hill;

I pressed my face through the tall verge,

absorbed at this stark might, pure will.

 

Entranced by a dichotomy

of peace, serene, a farm and hedge;

and near beside the manic rush;

a curious threat, beyond the edge.

 

The sounds deep, churning, underneath;

the rows of ash and elm, beside

asphalt, exhaust, rubber, glass;

place in my mind the thought to hide.

 

But interruptions, put me in thought

of life passing, intersections;

and around corners, sounding clear,

always, that shrill of warning horns.