Headlights illuminate the road scape,
Golden haze oozing over soaked tarmac.
Cat’s Eyes chirrup, peeping out of the blur as
Tail lights recede, eyes of red, disappearing.
Others.
Oncoming traffic flies; racing, passing,
White eyes frantic.
Morse in movement, trickling and torrenting,
Tis the tale of this night.
Music hums softly from the air, consorting with the thrum,
Of rubber reverberating, revelling on fresh road,
Gliding, smooth suspension purring in glee.
Atoms never touch; this levitation.
Silhouetted trees whizz, countryside a passing;
Drifting, wafting, caressed by the flicker of the eye.
Tis the tale of this drive.
Dawn colours the horizon.
Staining delicate pink against inky, pitchy cyan,
The ombre effervescent in exchange.
Midnight to mauve.
The sun is coming; the end is nigh, for the night.
Silent, encroaching, the time passing like the miles,
The march of molecular light.
Effortlessly changing, bartering hopelessly,
Tis the tale of this dawn.
Tis the tale of this night,
Tis the tale of this drive,
Tis the tale of this dawn.
Smooth and soothing, the night drive
This night drive. Universal, but here, unique.
Leaving the invisible blanket of retiring dark.
Entering the piercing light.
A journey in space, perhaps,
But also, a beam through time.
James Phillips