Canto CXXII

This is truly what we’d call a nowhere—
a rain drenched dash past nondecsript hedgerows,
occasional stretches of pylon wire,

the dull-eyed sheep and heavy, ripened cows,
the overfarmed consolation of green,
crops lined up like stacked shelves in Tescos,

the little villages, what pretty scenes
must play on their 40inch plasma screens
after Daddy’s Mercedes has returned

from another commute to the Stock Exchange.
The Welcome Break is just six miles away,
the homely ring and crash of fruit machines,

the aroma or freshly stale coffee.
As night falls, we keep watch for clustered lights,
to signal the approach of the city,

no truer wilderness to these tired eyes.

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1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jan 04, 2012 @ 00:29:04

    You caught the mood of this place to perfection. A wasteland neither urban nor wild.

    Reply

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