Autumn night drive
we follow country lanes,
Singing Queen.
As, in the condensation
on the windows,
We write words
and draw shapes.
And through the lines
we have made
we glimpse
tree after, silhouetted tree
passing on by
when the sky,
Dark as it is,
Still displays
the very faintest hues
of orange at its base.
And behind the words
we have written
we see
mysterious lights
drifting through some distant field.
And I find myself
made strangely aware
of the way in which
the world has always continued
to breathe
and move and live,
Each night and day,
Far beyond the enclosure
of my eyelids.
Behind our seat belts,
We are still,
While the world moves around us,
We're coming from somewhere,
And we're on our way home,
What does that mean?
When we were in the city,
In the town,
In the streets,
There was a plastic bag
caught on the plank of a bench,
And a ball stuck in a tree.
There was a man wheeling his bike in the twilight,
There were walls and walls and doors and floor...
And walls with yellow white squares on them
That got smaller as they reached the sky,
I saw life in the squares,
A family ate dinner,
A man was on the phone,
A woman read a book,
And a man drank alone.
The faster we moved,
I watched their bodies blur,
They do it everyday,
What does that mean?