I Drove Home Backwards

Freezer fresh rain splats on my windscreen

I inch my way through traffic

clip a kirb to let an ambulance through

sing the next line of that song they play on Radio 1

every day.

It was dark when I left for work this morning

and here I am again.

I swing in and around cars parked on the road

then whoosh onto the long one where

I can be by myself and hum along with the engine.

The clouds streak the sky like tracks on an ice rink

clear and bright and it begins to get brighter.

My windows are closed but I can smell the delicious rain

spitting off the ground, warming 

with each rough turn of the wheels I roll along with.

My eyes shift to the landscape, like a camera 

in and out of focus

and the liquorice tunnel beneath me becomes a record

playing my own song.

White welcomes me home

in a puff swirled on the top of a mountain

sprinkled with snow.

I wind into the embrace of a town 

I am half-heartedly attached to.

Its eyes are fixed, its hands held tight

and feet are firmly on the ground.

My home – where wind, rain and snow 

settle down with no hesitation

and decide they belong.

But I drove home backwards

and there's nobody in.