Motorway Accident

by oosh@gmx.net

Tired, the farmer follows the dog on to the bridge.
Far below, on the dull tarmac, heavy goods moan past,
Slick-haired businessmen whine past, tucked into their cellphones,
Giving feedback to anxious bosses,
Apologizing to anxious wives.

For a moment, they are all gone, and it is still.
"Eyy," calls the farmer, and the dog sits.
The farmer rests on crossed arms, looking out on the empty motorway.
"Eyy," and the dog nuzzles his leg,
Looking down on the sudden stillness. This is how it was.

But then, in the distance, a little box grows larger.
In her mother's car, resented by dog and farmer,
A young woman speeds from the City. Unused to the open road,
This is Mother's dear little round-the-shops car,
Loaned when Ma became too ill to drive.

He hears the engine's unhealthy rattle. Below him,
She presses her foot to the floor, goaded
Not by the success of her business meeting,
Not by words of praise in the City,
But by that terrible telephone call.

Lazily, the farmer chuckles. He understands engines.
"That won't last long!" he reckons out loud.
And the tiny car rattles brusquely underneath,
Its driver pressed to the wheel, face gleaming with tears,
Hastening to its owner's death-bed.

"Never meant to be driven that way! Town cars, them!"
He understands cars. Backing from the precipice,
The dog whines, shakes himself.
Confidently, the farmer strides on his way,
Into the peace of the evening.

This was how it was before the motorway came, invading his land:
The sun and the birds, singing the dusk down.
But the dog stands, whining on the bridge.
"Eyy!" His voice a sonorous baritone, "Eyy!"
After a last glance, the dog follows the farmer:

He understands dogs.
