people walk small
in the villages next to motorways
and as we make a turn off
the car eases back
and our faces inside pour on the windows
making ugly masks when mixed in with the cruel weather
a sign says that we are now entering Wales
so we hush, and the radio dins in bad reception
much is the same, except that there are double the words on the road signs I see
and the buildings beat with butterfly wings, on their exterior walls
every now and again