Ken's Poetry

Motorway

A Morris 8 began those years,
double de-clutching through the gears
hour after hour to get it right,
the crash of gears, the clutch’s bite,

then winding lanes to swerve and sway,
no other car to block the way
where once the weary pilgrim trod
around the hills and streams to God.

The excitement of those arrow roads,
fast bone breaking narrow roads
and fifty miles per hour tops
on the straight mile beside the copse.

“Halt at major road ahead!”
where all the iron signposts said
the miles behind, the miles to go:
take it easy, take it slow.

The ‘A’ roads then were killer roads,
rushing trucks with crushing loads.
Headlights! Blinkers! “Clear the way!”
Centre lane and let us pray!

We now ride motorways supreme
to places we have never been,
slow motion speed with sleepy ease,
no traffic lights, no crowding trees,

no cars rushing towards your head,
an overtaking lane instead,
a gentle ride at quickened pace,
a smoother, faster kind of race.

On motorways I love to drive,
twelve hours to Wales is down to five,
give me the triple carriageway
flat out nearly all the way,

no rush I get will ever sway
the excitement of the motorway.