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.

poem

84-85

arts & ego
dish dosh
© & licence

set Hear

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




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