Watford Gap

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