the left lane traveller stays his course
as overtakers do pass him by–
daggers shot through mirrored reverse,
though they ne’er meet his eye
for on his own, and on he stays
forward through by through–
the road beneath him stretches day
from night to morning, too
and on he drives as darkness Falls;
and in each blow of wind
in solitary starlit routes,
the left lane welcomes him
those arrived forgot to see,
neglecting constellations draped;
alone in their rooms, asleep in their beds
dancing a stage, once was raked
judgement passed for driving slow;
for them, he too does feel–
in learn-less ways, then while he grows
rushed minds, now idle, yield
there, beneath the cold vast empty,
yet before the morning snow–
softly shaded by gum trees, his
arrived finally, entirely home.
