I promised my friend Ruben that I would try to write a poem about driving in the dark and drizzle of an English winter and here it is: <br /> <br />Low Cloud Over the Motorway [that's the Freeway if you are American] <br /> <br />Inside the puffy lining <br />of the cheek of a dying deity, <br />paired orange street lamps curve away, <br />defining the jaw's line. <br /> <br />Along which we hurtle, dawdle, <br />wait impatiently for red to turn to green, <br />wrapped in our metal skins. <br />We are the flora, the bacteria, <br />inhabiting this narrow space <br />between our birth and the teeth of death. <br /> <br />Or is that grey canopy above us, <br />leaking sweaty drizzle, <br />the cellulite surface of a god's buttock? <br />Solid, it seems, weight tilting, <br />poised to crush the products <br />of our human dreams.<br /><br />Janice Windle<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/landscapes-collection-driving-at-dawn-on-december-10th-revised-version-dec-12th/
