This angle,
the one at which I see the stars,
denies my eyes a swathe of sky
and forces me to focus on the best bits.

Sweeping telegraph wires
undulate across my eyeline,
the stars keep pace with us
and short white lines flash by
beneath the window pane.

Head inclined I listen to the force
with which the other cars pass,
and imagine the stories their tyres might tell,
to the silenced road beneath. 

Above, an owl flashes luminous
just for a second, then fades,
it's shadow space turned to ruddy smog.
We have left the dark behind.











turns
to ruddy smog as we leave
the haunted country roads behind.