The early draft of a poem.
A bushell of hours it's been,
Picking the promising roads like
the juiciest berries
we had for lunch.
Unwrapping the tinfoil that smells of
ham, cheese, pickle;
you wrap the precious package
back up just so you can capture
the initial promise of food again.
It's never quite as good
as the first time. The mountains
not quite so tall,
the sheep already named,
the cars you've shared twenty miles
with, they're best friends now,
going anywhere together,
but you know every fold of the metal,
every varying shade of colour
on its skin, seen through a window.
And in that car another family
that you make faces to, then speed off ahead.
So here I am again,
between two lengths of rope.
tied to either end of the car.
I'm the knot in the
middle, two sides fighting to stay out the mud
Not realising I'm already in there.