The Night Drive


The motorway architecture,
cinematically constructed
to roll and repeat
on a rain-sheened
celluloid loop

-sprockets of way-signs

-endlessness whirring.

The unblinking stare of
star struck cats-eyes
roll, repeat.

Advance to the dark.
More mindless concentration,
other drivers little worlds
rush by and recede.
Reckless proximity at speed.

Sauce spilt from a ripped tin,
a mangled lorry
dipped in blood passes and stays.
Mopped by morning, though.

Thoughts return, rolling, repeating
Signs wave like dead friends,
30 miles, 29
reminding and rolling,
and with the light of morning
there is a remembered end
to the enforced merging of the repetitive new.
Where tiredness and endurance
bring the apotheosis of
Home,
with its freedom of old familiarities.

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24 thoughts on “The Night Drive

  1. i rather like driving at night…usually do on long trips…and i have watched that countdown on the signs…nice allusion to them being dead friends….and home once you get there is like one long sigh…

  2. Enjoyed your imagerY:
    “roll and repeat
    on a rain-sheened
    celluloid loop”
    And:
    “other drivers’ little worlds.”

    There is a wet scent and hiss to a night drive, too, I think. Would like to have been engaged in all my senses. Yet your poem as it stands is very evocative of a thing we may not all even suspect we somehow share…

  3. “-sprockets of way-signs

    -endlessness whirring.” — great use of words. I also really like “Where tiredness and endurance
    bring the apotheosis of
    Home,
    with its freedom of old familiarities.” Such a great ‘feeling’ to end the poetry.

  4. There is a certain comfort in night riding…but then coming home to familiarity really wins the day…or the night. I like much “signs that wave like dead friends” Liked this work, Brian!

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