One corner of a tarmac field© GERALD ENGLAND.
is littered with cars and coaches
signed by cold neon.
Most vehicles are empty
their occupants refuelling themselves
inside with coffee
and insipid sausages.
Others who have come from nearby towns
sit eating their fish and chips and peas
drinking own-brewed tea
from a thermos flask.
Beyond here the swift way runs west
over barren moor that still
fights the traveller
with its winds.
Fierce winters bring down icy fogs
that lure lemming speedsters
into flesh-torn traps
of twisted metal,
while in summer the sun shines on Scammonden
where yachts ply on peaceful water
and gliders hang
from a nearby cliff.
Leaving the Services on this cold, bright night
we think ahead only to the warmth
that lies in the bed
at journey's end.
Composed: Oldham, 1st March 1978