Driving The Trees
I’m just a driver sauntering an English country road the starlit side of dusk.
Occasional rows of tall winter trees escort this white–lit route,
But worry haunts;
I’m ready for flight,
Yet there is no movement in this empty lane,
And now I realise what I’ve seen;
yet the fields,
I feel the shock of standing at a cliff edge and the ground starts to give.
I lean forward,
I’m driving a row of naked trees across the full moon.
What a fool.
is hosted by
arts & ego
© 1978–2023 dylan harris