A grey day, a misty, hazy day
as we follow the skeins of geese
heading south on the motorway.
'White Rose County'
'Brontë Country'
A break in the gloom, and geometric shafts
of sunlight sink through clouds.
The mucky god of industry beams
down on his chosen, on slag heaps
stepped and greening.
Motorway forks on to Sheffield, engineered, proud.
Brown fields, white seagulls.
Green meadows, black crows.
Autumn is sniffing around.
Swallows go with us, and more geese,
flying, fleeing to cheat the frosts
nipping at their feet.
A squashed anonymous fur shape in the fast lane
won't see winter.
Faint nausea, then it's forgotten.
Tibshelf. Heanor. THE SOUTH.
Robin Hood County.
Fish signs on a blood-red Fiesta.
Sudden bodies of grave grey water,
golds and crimsons where the trees have grown
their own personal sunsets, mourned
by spotting tears of rain.
Electronic signs say 'queue' and then 'END'
amid balding trees by the hard shoulder.
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