Huddersfield

Coming back from Huddersfield, late, late spring fog presses up between the pillars of a bridge.

I'm tired, decide it's a wall, unaccountably there, blockading Bicester.

Never mind the miraculous feats of other traffic, they are not with me.

I gasp, jolt, stop at the next service station, hand mater the keys.

Before assembly, someone told me pot clouds could stop bullets.

This benign, mysterious wool?

That was a close one, you, sleep.

Sleep, I don't, spend the next 70 miles absently abstracting the nature of sleep.

Abstracting myself from danger 

and the enduring distortion where the road becomes horizon.