White Lines, Red Lines

 

White Lines, Red Lines

 

The white lines are not daubed,

Sedgemoor Services, M5, you’re bored,

a windowed face staring blank.

That must be you – hard shouldered banks

of uncut thistles, gorse, seeding grasses

conducting the wind through the glass –

dead traffic unmoved these plus two hours

and you could confidently count flowers

that will never grow. You wonder whether

speeding cars would tumble in heather

from mere lack of luminous paint. No matter -

put from your mind any clatter

of metal on metal, screaming brakes

and trust to luck for luck’s sake.

Tomorrow you’ll find yourself browsing

bleary eyed, charity shop-shelves housing

someone’s second hand CD collection –

maybe had been given with affection

you’d assume – someone must have desired

this music, set someone’s heart afire,

maudlin collections of greatest hits

must have stirred some ancient soul a bit –

but there’ll be nothing you’ll want to pocket.

From behind – a voice - ‘Excuse me,’

she shoves past with ill repressed enmity,

you crossed some red line, that I guarantee,

a random face you’ll never again see,

dragging pushchair, dog, she’s anxious to flee

to navigate forests and consider the trees.