Late Summer
Driving at midnight
to my father's house
listening to Neil Young quietly
the warm air billowing
the muddied scent
of threshed fields seasoned with rain,
thinking I know each turn
of this road by heart,
familiar as a conversation
you know every word to
before it begins,
the road unravelling
like a long sentence
of someone who talks
with no purpose,
I think I could close my eyes
just for a moment
or switch off these lights
and still find my way,
just like the owl
who materialised momentarily
in the headlights,
whiter than a ghost,
before spiriting back to dark.
Tom Harding
Sun 20th Aug 2017 23:53
Thank you all, some very kind words...