It is a stormy night, and I have just driven home over the Woodhead Pass – one of the inspirations for this poem. It seemed apt to repost.
I remember the daily grind through the Peaks;
from Hillsborough to hospice.
Morphine induced twilight hours,
brittle brown heather hair,
cascading watery cataracts,
crashing, weeping, winding.
I know each bend like the veins in my hand;
the outcrops and falling rocks.
Spray from the lorries,
thrown up, muddy teardrops,
sliding down the windscreen,
breaking limits, breaking hearts.
This is the road to hell.
© Death of a Minor 24.05.2014
by Alexandra Carr-Malcolm
Photo credit : photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/romeo66/2101025633/”>Romeo66</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a>