Angst Cycle:
Watford Gap


Claws of vague, white fog
tense over the motorway,
like a fisherman to the fish.

The sharp orange of streaming lights
lost in that glowing cloud;
the claws, a suffocating grasp
tensed over the carriage-way;
the red lights of those ahead,
smudged in this stupidity snare.

You slow, seeing few white lines:
the prey passes at seventy.

image: poem

84-85

site
copyright

The Door
Father
I've Always Had Steep Mountains
Watford Gap
Why Is England So Full Of Fools
(Untitled)
Letter




this archive is hosted by arts & ego
© 1978-2024 dylan harris