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The road stubbles toes with blood; Hot bitumen runs, where cars surge past tyre-tramp and piston march, tyres of rolling anthracite, their windows black blank one-way glass. They lay tar here: the flame burns In flares of sun, the workers Sweat, swear and shovel with a scrape of rust. The cars blast past, they are going Somewhere, somewhere, nowhere. Gone. Grass seed clogs tar silence. Air throbs: there shimmer out of the haze Of short horizons where the road melts in mirage Four riders: the fevered illusion hardens To goggled reality and a glitter of chrome Which javelins with sunlight. The world boils to thunder then they are gone. Lance light still purples in thirst eyes. |
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