Tripping time

Late winter.
Darkness falls on a northern city,
rain closes round.
The car engine hums
through the night
through the splatter of rain
on the windscreen.
Along the backroads
I drive,
through the villages
in the shadowlands
skirting out of the city’s reach,
muffled deep
in my thick black coat,
deep in its warmth
in the damping dark,
peering through the windscreen,
the rain
and the night,
while the heater chuffs along
as a backdrop
to the stream of songs
drizzling from the old car radio.
And where are you?
At the other end of the night,
sprawled on your mattress
under the starry warmth
of an upside-down sky,
Then, when finally
I crawl under the bedcovers,
against the damp, dark European night,
you’ll be tossing back yours
to step into an Antipodean day.
Without me.

 (18 March 2014)

© Cate Kimberley and Word and Affect, 2014


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