Motorway Poem by ian westwood

White lines, blue signs, ghost light defines
THE MOTORWAY,
Drawn through the die of daylight to eternity,
In the sandy mould of a jigsaw landscape cast,
With seething bones of concrete tamped to ground,
Or tethered into fibrous structures vast.

This land, now sealed, and stolen from my sight
Was once the place where I, in childhood, with delight,
Did venture on a sunny day in spring
To listen to the gentle skylark sing.

With trees aloft and boasting at their height,
With flowers tumbling over tufted mounds,
A place of magic at the dawn of day
Alive with nature and all her precious sounds.

And now as I, alone, with tempered pace
Dare venture to the bounds of this uncanny place,
I shed a tear for all that I once knew,
The light of spring and summer's satin hue.

The scent of blossoms gently gliding
On their fragile downward flight
Beneath a summer moon
On a bygone summer night.