This busy air is cold and bright,
rendering the water in the crossing dykes
a glittering rush of Sharp Blue*.
White clouds with the spirit
of steaming liners sprint above me,
while I, in my car, run this road
with no boxes alongside imprisoning streets,
no brick wall bigotry from some chattering suburb;
no metropolitan clutter, no town crowds, just distance.
The photography is here, but I can’t catch it.
But I will; I’ll learn to express my cheer
at this absence, this emptiness.
From Iain M. Banks’ Culture, for no good reason.