Rush Hour In Brimscombe

Rush Hour In Brimscombe

­Scales playing, out of the window
Carried on the wind
Above the road noise, which pauses
Temporarily on hold as if to say
Go on, no, it's your turn now
Crows caw whilst others soar against the blue
A wood pigeon takes the baton on a backdrop of chittering
Still the cars, carrying their burdened loads
Direction is all they have, singular in purpose
Driving in the literal sense
Distance over time their measure of success
There a train, then a siren
For a moment, sleek, modern, engineered distractions
Threaten to dominate, a motorbike imposing its guttural ululation
But it grumbles and is gone,
Leaving only the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh
A backdrop, rumbling with heavy bass notes
The wind picks up, taking a lead
Suffusing with the sparkling sound of leaves in the trees
Willow and beech, poplar and a solitary, misplaced eucalyptus
Each has its call
There a child, in the distance a dog barks once, twice
The beep of a crossing
And still the rushing, waves back and forth
Refinery-fuelled, aerodynamic contraptions
So wanting to sound like the sea
And briefly, they do
But they can never be quite the same
Aspirations of modernity, to align with a landscape
That will remain long after the cars have gone
A bell chimes. and there, a thrush casts out its tune
Oblivious, caring only for the consequences
of its song.
5/7/2021