William Bibby

  

   OFF ROAD


  

  Can you come to Rosie Mains?
Come safely from the hard shoulder,
through the barriers that are air?
Junctions, beds of asphalt, ton by ton
lie themselves down in corridors,
clover-leafs, figures of eight;
all the exits darkened equal all the light
as the main land might think itself one
but nightly the islands drift away.

Can you come to Rosie Mains?
Where consciousness burns away
the overwhelming mass of incarnations,
like giant electric parks idling in neutral greys.

Can you come to Rosie Mains?
Though it isn’t, the feeling is of rain.
Spray from passing cars, the sleets of white
lane by lane, until far away a figure reaches
over the fields and woods, reveals shade;
spoken words accelerate, the scenery flies up
balanced by light; a continual being, an equinox;
and in the field by the road
a stag runs alongside a fox.