Letting The Road-Dust Settle Poem by Geoffrey Winch

With his broad broom
Mr Swain swept our road.
Little leaves of litter,
cigarette butts and dust
he swept into neat piles
then shovelled them into his barrow.
He kept our road clean, he
kept it tidy – I liked our road
but other roads I liked better.
That was when I was four

but maybe it was before
when, using my occult head
I first pencil-sketched
a few straight lines,
joined them together
and declared them roads, safe
in the knowledge that I would draw
other roads that would be better.

And these I drew, more-sophisticated lines –
tree-lined avenues I had in mind,
boulevards and squares filled with people,
plazas with fountains and plinths for statues,
wide-spanning bridges crossing meandering
rivers and railways where we’d meet relatives
who came to stay – ambitious maps in fact
of fantasy cities.

Then came the roads I designed for a living –
roads that fell far short of fantasy – highways
my hand indulged in building, maintaining –
motorway miles and mundane roads
threading their way through modern estates –
precise safety standards every inch of the way
now swilling with traffic, litter, pollution and
so much dust that even mechanical sweepers
can’t keep up.

These roads I have no wish to return to
so I’m leaving my worn boots off,
hanging my hard hat up –
I’m letting the road-dust settle.
It is to my fantasy cities that I’ll go
where Mr Swain only sweeps-up
autumn leaves – no litter,
no dust.