My car lays gasping, nosedived into a drift. I breaststroke my way to the only front door in sight, and knock until bruises burn through my gloves, but there’s no one home.
Maybe the people who live here ignored the weather warnings too, trusting the ineptitude of forecasters but snow smothered the skeleton of a tree, so it creaked and cracked and collapsed blocking the road.
I wonder if they’re banging on a door somewhere and wondering about the people not inside.
We’re on our way, a family of four, passports packed.
Excited children at the thought of a first channel crossing, practising their modest French, not many miles from port.
We’ve had to slow down; stop. No cause in sight. Drivers leave their wheels consult, united in annoyance.
Children fret, momentarily distracted by fast melting chocolate bars. There’s no grass verge, just tarmac. The sun is hot, the drinking water in demand.
Ice cream, an impossible dream. The road is blocked.
I wish they would shut the road through the woods. I daren’t go down there now. The way will be blocked with bulldozers and machines with balls on chains
To smash down the oaks that are two hundred years old to create another two lanes to speed the traffic through.
In my dreams I am multiplied a thousandfold or more. There are hundreds of us walking slow. Holding up the diggers and blocking the road.
4 comments:
traffic jam
the stranger in the next car
smiles at me
My car lays gasping, nosedived
into a drift. I breaststroke my way
to the only front door in sight,
and knock until bruises burn
through my gloves,
but there’s no one home.
Maybe the people who live here ignored
the weather warnings too, trusting
the ineptitude of forecasters
but snow smothered the skeleton of a tree,
so it creaked and cracked and collapsed
blocking the road.
I wonder if they’re banging on a door somewhere
and wondering about the people not inside.
Feb.13.
The road is blocked.
We’re on our way,
a family of four,
passports packed.
Excited children at the thought
of a first channel crossing,
practising their modest French,
not many miles from port.
We’ve had to slow down; stop.
No cause in sight.
Drivers leave their wheels
consult, united in annoyance.
Children fret, momentarily
distracted by fast melting
chocolate bars.
There’s no grass verge,
just tarmac. The sun is hot,
the drinking water in demand.
Ice cream, an impossible dream.
The road is blocked.
No Way through
I wish they would shut the road through the woods.
I daren’t go down there now.
The way will be blocked with bulldozers
and machines with balls on chains
To smash down the oaks
that are two hundred years old
to create another two lanes
to speed the traffic through.
In my dreams I am multiplied
a thousandfold or more. There are hundreds
of us walking slow. Holding up
the diggers and blocking the road.
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