Motorway 4 – Gregory Horne

Silvered gutter, plastic strip
that curls on the faster edge,
shines in rain, calls in noise
as red beads run away.

There are no quieter spaces

than the gaps behind
the barriers; exploded stones
of glass from that fatality
glimmer in an orange break.

Screenlight softens the motorway
and black is the baseline
of a spectrum. A red car sings,
spraying light across the lanes.

There are no darker places

than overpasses, points of intersection
which speak of nothing but direction –
other pathways, other errands,
other tyres sucking at the slick.

Grousing horsepower mewls
in clearer air, as we move from
where we were to where
we aim to be in rest,

where leaves cut into floodlight,
where night is, where bodies rest –
off the off ramp –
away from screens and talkback.

There is no more brilliant surface

than the sheer drapery of road rain
drawn across the silent plains.
Tyres shoosh. Streetlamps bend down
as if to speak.