In the early morning push of traffic

You'll find me driving along a bypass

It cuts through the character of suburbia

In dedication to speed and efficiency

 

The road carves a channel

A monument to focused intent

It is simple and straightforward

Uncomplicated in its design

No nonsense

A blank page waiting to be filled

 

And how we fill it!

With our machines of precision

We propel our ways along,

The headspace of the drivers

In one accord with the road:

All zealous ambition to

Facilitate the utmost haste

 

And yet,

That we would be blessed by the

Weeds that have pushed thru the cracks

of this canvas

The bitumen on the roadside edge

Their haphazardness

Their merry ugliness in proud display,

Flower and seed, green arms

Lolling wildly

Growing freely

 

And to the grasses

That gasp in-between the coursing lanes

Their sweeping swathes overflow,

Reaching out

To tickle and tithe

A quiet gift of memory -

Of cherishing a slower, more simple time

Where growing things stood a little taller

In our minds

 

The brambles

Have claimed the empty spaces

Wholly uninvited

In their claim for occupancy

They are prickly

Ruthless and tenacious

Yet I wonder, that they harken quietly

To places and times within and without

Unruly, messy,

Demanding attention and care

 

And then the great towering gums

In rows

By roadside

Precisely

These exclamation marks

Standing to attention

Onlookers to our determination

Our fixation to get from A to B

But even more so,

More surely and fully

Affixed with wonder and worship

Mesmerised by something

Other.

They're a hallelujah chorus

By the roadside

Precisely

Onlookers to love

And to glory

 

 

 

 

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