Today's poem has a sombre background. I'm not one for long backstories to poems feeling they should speak for themselves. However, a little context here may be helpful.
I was driving back from closing the Cheltenham Poetry Festival late last night and keen to get home, I put my foot down. This reminded me of the many late night journeys a couple of years ago when Dad was ill. I made the journey from Scarborough to home in Milton Keynes (about 200 miles) many times during the weeks before he slipped away. Travelling late at night meant clear roads and it's strange but I remember one journey when I had a moment of clarity; that one day that drive would be the subject of a poem. I'm ready now, so here it is.
Best, Mark x
Auto Pilot.
I am driving.
I am driving fast,
in the dark.
I am driving fast in the dark.
Cat’s eyes like dropped diamonds,
sparks from the stars
speeding
quick, quick, quick.
Driving like they do in films
scorching a line on a map.
Driving to home, from home
in that strange way we do,
caught between the two
Who am I?
Where is home?
Don’t think just drive.
I am a bullet from a gun
I am tracer fire
in war-torn skies
I am driving from death
from grief,
from a future without him.
Don’t think, just drive.
Drive, drive, drive.
I am arrow
straight, narrow.
I am speed on speed
driving on steroids
fully leaded
double espresso
I am a bullet from a gun
I am bullet
Before the caffeine wears off
before thoughts kick in.
Road bends, the earth curves
light bends
I am getaway car
with no escape
so drive, drive, drive.
Bullet from a gun.
Bullet,
bullet,
bullet.
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